By Baker Street Station, I Sat Down and Wept
by Deco
Summary: Petunia Dursley has trouble: she's lost her family, she's going crazy, she can do magic (but not always), her suitors are a mixed bag (operative word) & people keep trying to take her children away from her. They should be very afraid. (Not only a) Double Severitus. WARNING: Not what you expected.
1. Chapter 1: NEVER BELIEVE IT'S NOT SO

CHAPTER ONE: NEVER BELIEVE IT'S NOT SO (IT'S MAGIC)

_In which Petunia Dursley tells only part of the truth. She has her reasons, of course.  
_

"Do you think this is a waste of time?" the social worker asked Petunia.

Petunia smothered a start, and said earnestly, "Of course not."

"Glad to hear it," the social worker said drily. "Your husband wouldn't agree."

Petunia was on guard now. She didn't respond.

"He told me that this was useless."

Petunia said softly, "Poor Vernon."

The social worker raised her eyebrows. Petunia continued, looking at her target carefully, "He really doesn't understand what's going on at all, I'm afraid."

"Perhaps we should start at the beginning, then. Where'd you meet him?"

_I met him at the candy store...he turned around and smiled at me...you get the picture?...yes, we see..._

Petunia suppressed a whoop of laughter at the top ten oldie playing in her head and said sedately, "We met at school. We both studied accounting." She could see the social worker suppress a grimace. It must sound not interesting indeed.

It had been during one of Petunia's fits of self-improvement. Her social life had been next to non-existent –yet again—and in a weak moment she had asked her mother for advice. Her mother had told her: "You're too sharp, Pet; you're just too sharp." Petunia knew 'sharp' did not mean 'smart' in her mother's lexicon. It meant _sharp_—too sarcastic, too prickly, too critical. Her mother's mouth had opened and Petunia had a sinking feeling that she knew what was coming next. Sure enough: "You catch more bees with honey than vinegar," her mother intoned, while Petunia considered whether repeating clichés endlessly was a reasonable ground for matricide. Not really—Petunia was very fond of her mother—most of the time—and even knew she was right. Sort of. As one of her former boyfriends had put it to her bluntly, she wasn't good-looking enough for him to tolerate her sarcasm. Petunia got the point. If she wanted to get married and have children, which she did, she had decided that she would have to school her expectations to match her talents and appearance, and pretend to be dull.

Dullness—or something, Petunia was never sure what-had attracted Vernon Dursley. He was younger, slimmer and had more hair then, and he had a decent education. A reasonable prospect, as prospects went. Petunia did not love him, but with the optimism of youth, she thought she could change him into something tolerable, perhaps even lovable. He droned on about boring subjects, repeated himself endlessly, and indulged in supposedly funny stories—he could kill a punch line stone dead-and she knew that would be difficult to endure, especially in the long term. And he resented it if she demonstrated wider knowledge that he could boast, or any independence. But he was solicitous—then—and Petunia believed that she could do no better. She was painfully aware that she lacked allure, and she had concluded, having lost her family's genetic lottery by a mile or so, that dullness was her lot, in more ways than one.

And so they were married, and before long she discovered that certain aspects of Vernon were a lot worse than dull.

"You were married in 1977, I think?" Petunia nodded.

"Rather young." _No error. My parents warned me against it, though they didn't live long enough to get the pleasure of telling me "I told you so." I wish they had. I would have taken it like a man. I promise._

"And your son was born in 1980?"

"Yes, Dudley was born in late July." _A hostage to fortune._

"And you live in Little Whinging, in Surrey." Petunia nodded again, supplied the exact address, and wondered vaguely how long this was going to take.

"And the next year, you adopted your nephew?" _Well, that's one way of putting it._

"Yes, after his parents died in October."

"How did they die?" _They were killed by a psychopathic wizard serial killer on a rampage, actually. That's what I'm told, anyway._ "It was a car crash. The child was in the back seat, in a carrier, and he survived."

"Did your husband agree to the adoption?" _He didn't get asked. Nor did I. _"Oh, yes."

"Was he happy about it?"

Petunia was silent, aware that she would have to be careful. "Well...he wanted another child of our own."

"And he resented not having one?"

"I'm afraid he did." The social worker looked thoughtful.

"Does he dislike the child?" _He hates the child. Hates him, loathes him, despises him. _"I'm afraid they've never gotten along." _It's hardly a child's fault if an adult has an unreasoning prejudice against him, is it? And just try to explain it to them in a way they can understand._

"Is there no one else who could take the child? What about your parents?"

"They died years ago, in a house fire." _Caused by another bunch of psychopathic wizards, of which there seems to be rather too many roaming about. That's another kettle of fish, though._

"And your sister's husband? Did he have any family?" _Dumbledore said not, but with wizards, who knows? Anyway, we were selected, nominated and elected. Whether we wanted to be or not. And put straight into the line of fire. _"No, he didn't."

"How many separations have there been?"

"This is the third. There was one early on, just before Dudley was born." _Petunia did not want to think about that—not at all. Some things were better left unexamined. _

"And you separated again when the boys were three, didn't you? For how long?"

"Nearly a year." _Please don't remind me._

"But you reconciled?" _If you can call it that. Vernon hired that barracuda of a lawyer—Marge paid—and I was going to lose custody of Dudley if I didn't agree to it. They said I was unstable. Well, I was taking anti-depressants, of course I was, but the recent death of all my adult blood relatives and the failure of my marriage had something to do with it, wouldn't you think? I'd like to see a judge co-exist with Vernon for awhile. They'd live on lithium. _"Yes."

"You had both boys with you during the separation?"

"Yes, but Vernon would often refuse to return Dudley after access visits. He claimed Dudley didn't want to come home because of Harry." _Said Harry was unstable, too. Runs in my family, he claims. Actually it trots, it canters, and it gallops._

"Was that true? Do they get on—or not?"

"Well, at first they didn't, but it's improved since then." _They often fought like dogs, but not so much anymore. Dudley's bigger, but Harry's faster, and will fight dirty if necessary. And I fear it was often necessary. But yes, the day Dudley turned five, things improved between them. Mainly because on that day they acquired a mutual enemy-Vernon._

"And what about Dudley's relationship with his father?"

"It was very good-at one time."

"What changed?" _If I tell you the truth you'll have me binned immediately. So what's believable? Vernon's a berk? Or Vernon hates magic? _

"Vernon dislikes Harry, and blames him for Dudley's behaviour." _Vernon thinks magic's catching, that's what. Yes, he's just that stupid. And at the start of their marriage, Petunia had thought that the fact that she was smarter than Vernon would mean that she would dominate him. Yes, *she* had been just that stupid. It was a true marriage of idiots._

"What sort of behaviour are we talking about?"

"Well—defiance, mostly. Harry's quite outspoken." _No error._

There was a pause.

"I want to show you some video we took of the boys," the social worker said. Petunia's heart sank.

First up was Dudley. Dudley avoided the camera lens, and answered the questions asked him in monosyllables. Did he enjoy visits with his father? A shrug. Did he like his cousin? "Harry? I s'pose." Was he happy with his mother? "I guess so." Petunia wished she were anywhere else on the planet including the bottom of the sea.

If Dudley was evasive, Harry was blank. He simply fiddled with his fingers and refused to answer any questions at all. Petunia could have cheerfully throttled him.

"We were quite concerned about their demeanor, and did some testing. They were both fairly unco-operative." _Oh, tell me about it._

But Petunia said nothing—out loud.

"The psychologist believes Dudley is mildly dyslexic, which affected his scores. We were concerned that Harry was autistic, but that didn't test out. In fact, we believe that they both may be gifted." _Well, you're right, but not in the way you think. And I can hear them both now: Dudley: "Well, what was I *supposed* to say? You didn't tell me!" and Harry: "Better not to say anything. They'll twist it if you do." Certainly life with Vernon was instructive that way._

"According to the psychologist, they are both quite bonded to you, and feel protective of you. This is not ideal, I need hardly say. Children are not supposed to nurture their parents." _They aren't nurturing me...we're in a defensive alliance. And if you think two seven-year-olds aren't worthy allies, you haven't met the seven-year-olds in question. Except that you have. You just don't see what's there._

"Can you describe the boys to me? Their personalities?"

"Dudley's good with gadgets and machines. Far beyond his age. He can make the most amazing things work. " _He set up a system to monitor his father—an early warning system—all by himself. Vernon thought himself very clever when he disconnected it, but that proved a waste of time. As it turned out, Dudley could make it run without electricity._

"Harry likes to read, and is quite athletic." _He can also run very fast, especially from Vernon. Petunia didn't know how she felt about his voracious reading habits. She had had them herself in childhood—encouraged by her father—and now wondered if she'd have been happier if she hadn't. Certainly it made it more difficult to fit in. Would it be different for a boy? Perhaps, but somehow she doubted it._

"They have some problems in school, I'm not denying that. That's why I started to home school them." _Well, that and the outbursts of magic. Dudley's tend to be rather subtle, but Harry's are not. It's a bit hard to explain some of them; their last teacher said that maybe her medication was making her hallucinate—she hoped. Petunia agreed fervently, and withdrew both boys from the school before the end of the week._

"Your husband accuses you of a host of things—he says you are unstable, lazy, and that you lie about him-also that you have turned the boys against him."

Petunia shrugged.

"You don't have anything to say to this?"

"I'm tired of denying it, but no, none of it is true." _I don't lie about him, I'm not lazy, and he turned the boys against him all by himself, but yes, I'm probably unstable. In fact, I'm sure I am. Sue me._

The social worker gave her a serious look. "The allegations that you've made against your husband are equally serious, as you must know."

Petunia said: "Allegations? I'm just telling you what happened."

"Yes, and Mr. Arcos supports your story. But you must know why we are concerned about him and his evidence."

"He's a gypsy."

The social worker gave her a repressive look. Obviously that remark was not acceptably PC, however true it happened to be. "He has quite a long criminal record for fraud," she said primly.

"I'm sure he does. That doesn't necessarily mean he's lying. After all, why is it to his advantage, in this case?"

"True enough, Mrs. Dursley, but you also have a long history-of mental instability. Your doctor's report is quite detailed—you've been on anti-depressants for years, and there has been various diagnoses—some quite disturbing, if you don't mind my saying so. Despite—or perhaps because of Mr. Arcos' story—it's quite possible that you will lose custody of the boys permanently."

Petunia didn't bat an eyelash, or even bother to answer._ That's what _you_ think, you boring little bureaucrat. It's not going to happen. I've been in tight spots before, and I've always done the same thing every time—dissolved in tears and pulled the blankets over my head. Not this time. I'm not losing the boys. They are _mine._ I'd shoot Vernon Dursley at point-blank range at high noon in Harrod's window before he got custody—and I assure you, I'd enjoy every damn second of that, and then some._

This thought in mind, she smiled sweetly at the social worker, who looked suddenly spooked.


	2. Chapter 2: EVERYTHING SHE DOES IS MAGIC

CHAPTER TWO: EVERY LITTLE THING SHE DOES IS MAGIC

Petunia had acquired her first name from her mother, who herself rejoiced in the floral moniker of Marigold. Marigold was bad enough, but Petunia was worse, in Petunia's opinion, and in the opinion of nearly everyone she encountered. "You're joking! Did your mother hate you, or something?" No, Marigold had been named for a cheap suburban annual herself, and she must have been the only person on earth who preferred petunias above all other flowers. "Such pretty colours, my love, and they bloom all season!" Her mother had also come from a Welsh family named Cadwalader, who believed in artistic expression, Celtic revival, free love, and genteel poverty, all of which they practiced with fierce determination. Her father, in contrast, had been a working-class Welsh nationalist—at that time spelling his surname Ifans-and his contribution to Petunia's troubles had been her second name, Angrahad. His mother's name, he had insisted: "His mum's name's Doreen, really," her mother had whispered. "She's just watched "How Green Was My Valley" too many times."

They named their second daughter Lily, continuing the flower tradition. Her middle name was Buddug, the Welsh word for victory. If Lily had trumped Petunia in the matter of first names, Petunia did have to admit that Buddug was worse than Angrahad, when Lily taxed her with it. "It isn't even pretty!" her mother would often wail, but her father had insisted, even though Welsh nationalism had taken a back seat to making a living shortly after Lily's birth. He had gone back to spelling his surname Evans, and got a boring job, at which he plugged away devotedly. His wife deemed such activities bourgeois, but said: "The sacrifices your poor dear father makes for us!" Petunia and Lily noticed that he poured his energies into union activities instead of nationalism, though he maintained a membership in what he described as a terrorist cell that met monthly to plot the overthrow of British Imperialism. He ignored the fact that everyone else called it a social club. "They have a nice booze-up, talk Welsh, and play some cards." Marigold said to her daughters. "No harm, no foul."

Petunia's parents had been very lukewarm about Vernon. "He'll be fat before he's forty, Pet," her mother said, with her unfortunate talent for vocalizing what everybody thought, but tried to pretend that they didn't. Her father's reaction had been more succinct: "Smarmy." Petunia, of course, had created a scene when they urged her to wait. "You don't trust my judgment!" she'd wailed. "You allow that Snape kid to come here all the time, but you don't like Vernon!"

Marigold had said mildly, "We never said we *liked* Severus. He's not a likable soul, poor boy. We feel sorry for him, of course."

"You'd allow Lily to marry who she wanted!" Petunia had cried.

"Well, not if she wanted to marry Severus Snape," Marigold said. "Not the sort of nose you'd want in the gene pool." Her father had agreed: "His father's a drunk—among other things. Lily could do a lot better and so could you."

"Why do you let him hang around here, then?"

"We tell her we disapprove and she'll convince herself that they're star-crossed, or some stupid thing," Marigold had said. "Say nothing and she'll move on by herself. After all, it's all about him, and she'll grow tired of that eventually."

"Follow your own advice, then," Petunia had snapped.

"Pet, I'm paying you the compliment of treating you like an adult." Her mother was not without guile.

Petunia saw her father trembling in his effort to remain silent, and finally he said, gently enough, moving forward and taking her hands, "Don't marry that Saeson*, anwyl**. Please."

Petunia had agreed to wait.

And her parents had been right about Lily and that clingy little creep, too. She came home for the summer from that magic school she attended, and he wasn't, for once, haunting the place. In fact, they didn't see him at all. Her parents studiously did not ask their younger daughter why. Petunia was not so reticent.

"Where's Greasy?" she asked. "Haven't seen him around, have I? Not that I miss him or anything."

Lily's lips thinned. "We're not on speakers," she said.

"Cheers for you. What's up?"

"I'm not good enough for him, apparently," Lily said soberly. She did not appear to be joking.

"Lily, what on earth are you talking about?" Petunia asked. Lily then launched into a long explanation, the gist of which thoroughly surprised Petunia; she had not heard about the troubles in the wizarding world. If you listened to Lily and her slimy acolyte in the usual course, being a witch or wizard was the greatest thing ever. Petunia had not realized that wizarding society was so stratified, nor that Lily was on the lowest level of that stratification.

"This doesn't sound too good, Lily," she said. "I mean, why not measure status by talent? You'd be right up at the top then, wouldn't you?"

"I'll never be at the top," Lily said bitterly. "No matter how hard I try. Wizarding culture is so different—no matter how much I learn, I'll always be behind, I'll never have the same opportunities as the pure-bloods."

"Pure-bloods! It sounds like the Nazis to me," Petunia remarked idly.

Lily looked at her. "You're not far wrong," she whispered, "They believe in genocide, too, some of them."

Petunia whispered back, "Do the folks know about this?"

Lily shook her head. "I may have made a mistake, Tune."

"What sort of mistake?"

"Magic is fine," Lily said, "I wish I could say the same for the people who practice it."

"Give it up, then. You don't have to live as a witch."

"Tune, think about it. I don't have any education past age eleven. Non-wizarding education, that is."

"I hadn't thought of that. You'll just have to take up acting, my dear, or something that doesn't require a formal education."

Lily laughed. "I'm just feeling a little down, I do admit. I really love magic, and I don't think I can go backwards. And I don't see myself as an actress, thank you, especially with red hair."

"Don't know why. I've always wanted red hair," Petunia said taking an envious glance at the red curls on Lily's shoulders.

"Then you're having a blonde moment," Lily said rudely. She gave her sister a playful shove. "You wouldn't like not being able to get a tan, I assure you. And I don't get it—you're tall and thin—why don't you go to London and try modeling?"

"Lily, you have looked at my face recently, haven't you?" Petunia gave a mock falsetto neigh.

"Belay that," said Lily, rolling her eyes. "You've got good bone structure and the right stylist could work wonders. You used to be interested in art and fashion—why not now?"

Petunia did not want to say that the discovery that she would not be allowed to go to Hogwarts had made everything else seem insignificant, so she shrugged.

"I mean, how can you be interested in accounting? You're a Cadwalader!" They both laughed. Marigold's family was notorious for never earning a groat, and never caring one for that fact.

"I can't," Petunia admitted. "You have no bloody idea how dull it is."

"I thought so!" crowed Lily. "You've only done two semesters—you still have time to change direction. You used to say that you wanted to go to the Chelsea College of Art—why not?"

Petunia hesitated.

"And don't say you want to marry Vernon Dursley," Lily said. "because I don't believe it for an instant. He's got mean little eyes. And I'm betting they're an accurate reflection of his mean little soul."

"You should talk!" Petunia said. "Did you ever look Greasy in the eye? If you did, you're braver man than I am, Gunga Din."

"Poor Sev," Lily said.

"Poor Sev, my arse," muttered Petunia, "Do you realize we haven't had a civil conversation since you met him?"

Lily looked at her. "I guess that's right," she said. "I've never thought of it that way."

"Was he worth the trouble?" Petunia asked.

Lily sighed. "He used to be."

"Well, anybody else interested? Despite your lowly status?"

"Well, yes," Lily admitted. "And he's a pure blood, too. Which even Sev isn't."

"Lily!" Petunia said. "Don't you dare go out with someone merely because he's tolerant! You don't owe him anything for that, any more you owed Snape something because you had a decent home and he didn't."

"Point taken," Lily sighed. "And in fact, I'm not really sure that this bloke is *really* interested. He's asked me out so many times, I believe it's just become a habit."

"Good looking?"

"Check."

"Rich?"

"Check."

"I already like him better than Greasy, and I've never even met him. Does this paragon have a name?"

"James."

"How thoroughly ordinary."

"He comes with a group, unfortunately."

"What, he believes in threesomes?"

"Foursomes. He has no less than three sidekicks, and quite frankly, they are quite thoroughly _de trop_, in more ways than one. Their names are Sirius, Remus and Peter—they call themselves the Marauders, if you can bloody well believe it-and the four of them bully poor Sev unmercifully."

"I think I'm in love."

"I'll introduce you."

But as it turned out, Petunia's introduction to the Marauders took place under less than ideal circumstances. Several months later, Petunia was called out of a night class to be told that her parents' home was on fire.

*Saeson – Saxon **Anwyl – dearest


	3. Chapter 3: THE REASON I BECAME A WITCH

CHAPTER THREE: THE REASON I BECAME A WITCH

Petunia found Lily standing on the curb outside their parents' house, tears running down her face; every so often, she used the heel of her palm to try to ineffectually stem the flow. She was gazing up helplessly at the symbol—a snake swallowing its tail, Petunia thought-in the sky. Petunia's heart sank; she knew what this meant. Her parents were dead.

"Lily!" Petunia cried, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. "Those Nazi wizards did this, didn't they? Didn't they?"

Lily began to wail, a high piercing sound. Petunia slapped her, not lightly. "Shut up!" she hissed. Lily sobbed and gasped, trying to wrench herself from her sister's grasp.

A dark-haired bespectacled young man grasped Petunia's wrist, and said, "I think you had better stop that-!" He didn't get to finish because Petunia punched him hard in the face, a roundhouse right cross that landed him on his back in the gutter. Another taller dark-haired young man tried to intervene, dodging the punch that Petunia aimed at him, and smirking with triumph when he did so. He thus didn't see the wicked left hook she brought from the other side, and he joined his friend prone on the street. A third young man, brown haired and rather weedy, wisely stayed out of her range. Petunia saw him draw a wand, so she snatched up a piece of the fence post that was lying on the street and hurled it at him. It hit him right between the eyes and he crumbled to the ground. A fourth boy, short and blonde and pink-nosed, backed away from her so quickly that he tripped over a curb and knocked himself out.

Lily laughed loudly, the sound making Petunia wince. "So much for the great Marauders!" she cried. "Beaten up by a Squib!"

Petunia, furious, began to berate Lily—this was all her fault, damn her to hell! Their parents would still be alive if she weren't a witch—those Nazis wouldn't have targeted them otherwise—the recrimination and anger poured out. Lily alternated between sobs and gusts of laughter. In mid-tirade, a police officer appeared. He waited patiently and prudently out of range until the rush of words from Petunia slowed.

"Miss Evans?"

"Yes?"

"Can I help you?"

"I need a drink," Petunia said hoarsely. "I need a drink *now*."

They were sitting with the police officer in a pub—later Petunia could not recall how they got there—and Petunia ordered a brandy, which she downed immediately. Neither she nor Lily ever drank hard liquor, but Petunia didn't care. Lily managed one brandy and then passed out, falling straight backwards off her barstool. Petunia caught her just as she was about to hit the floor. It took ten minutes and three more brandies before Petunia achieved the same results.

Petunia came to in a hospital room. She had a throbbing headache and an parched mouth. A nurse came in and began to prod her unhelpfully, asking a bunch of questions that she couldn't concentrate on. Petunia knew she had a sister, and wanted to ask after her, but unfortunately, she couldn't remember her name. She did not ask after her parents; she knew they were dead.

When she finally remembered Lily's name, it took her several hours to decide to apologize to her. When she thought back her behaviour had been bad, and not only that, weird. Violence wasn't her usual style. She'd heard that punching someone with your bare hands was foolhardy and often incredibly painful, yet she'd knocked out two young men, and felt no pain at all. Adrenalin? Grief? She didn't know. And yet she was still angry at Lily. She'd known the wizarding world was dangerous. Why hadn't she warned their parents? She'd told Petunia about it. And Petunia herself had never passed the information on, a fact which made her feel even worse.

Finally, she decided to brave it out. But when she approached Lily's room, she realized that her sister had company—the Marauders—stupid name for a silly bunch. They were making, typically, a lot of noise. It struck Petunia that she had had no visitors—none.

No friends. And now, other than Lily, no relatives. She felt incredibly alone.

She had crept back to her own room, gathered her belongings, checked herself out, and returned to the tiny bed-sit she had occupied as a student in London. She'd crawled into bed, and stayed there for most of the next week.

And then, finally, miraculously, there was a knock at her door: Vernon. He was bearing a bouquet of flowers, and a wearing a sorrowful expression. He'd seen a newspaper report, he said, and wanted to express his sympathies; he'd tracked her down. By that time, Petunia was glad to see anybody.

During the course of the next month, Vernon took charge of her life. She saw it at that time as caring and solicitous, and much later as a natural control freak coming into his own. She never remembered later actually receiving nor accepting a proposal, but by the end of the month they were married by a justice of the peace, with Vernon's sister Marge as witness. Vernon bought Number 4 Privet Drive with an inheritance from his grandmother and they settled into married life.

Little Whinging proved to be yet another place where Petunia did not fit in.

Not only that, she started to go mad.


	4. Chapter 4:BEWITCHED BOTHERED& BEWILDERED

CHAPTER FOUR: BEWITCHED, BOTHERED AND BEWILDERED

Not barking mad, mind you. At least not yet. Just mildly bonkers.

Petunia could see a flash of things in her peripheral vision, yet when she turned her head, nothing was there. She could hear conversations when alone in the house, yet she could never make out the words. It was like constant white noise. She shut off every appliance in the house, but it did no good whatsoever. She seldom slept, and as her appetite disappeared, her weight, never high, plummeted.

Then there were the memory lapses. At first they were mild. She would plan a dish for dinner and then find it already made on the counter. When she awoke in the morning, she would go downstairs and find breakfast waiting on the set table. The house cleaned itself, the laundry was done and neatly folded, the garden was weeded, and yet she could never remember doing any of it.

Then she began seeing things in the distance—things that couldn't possibly be there—her parents, for one. As she stumbled towards them, the hallucination disappeared.

Doctors didn't help. The diagnosis was variously depression; anxiety; celiac disease; allergies; post traumatic stress syndrome; fibromyalgia; anorexia; bipolar disorder; and—whisper it—schizophrenia. Not that Petunia was stupid enough to tell all the symptoms to anyone.

At first Vernon was reasonably sympathetic, but as the symptoms persisted, he gradually became impatient, and then irritated. It was all in her head, he insisted. Vernon Dursley, the King of the Obvious, she muttered to herself. _Of course_ it was all in her head. She could be better if she just tried harder, he said. Petunia did try. But serious effort on her part changed nothing.

It distressed her, too, that she was so unhappy with Vernon. Surely he'd been better than this when they were dating, or was her memory playing more tricks on her? Vernon was not only dull, he needed to control everything, including the money he gave her, how she spent it, whom she talked to, how she kept their home, whether she completed her education (he insisted that she didn't need to) or got a job (he forbade it). It was like living with a parent, albeit one that seemed to hate you.

For Vernon was also critical of her. Her appearance, her manners, her clothes, everything irked him. Why didn't she try harder?—was his constant theme. He worked, he made the money, he provided the home. All she had to do was be worthy of him. But she wasn't, and she wouldn't even try.

Petunia wondered if she had missed something. When did her life go from mediocre to miserable? Mediocrity seemed so desirable now in retrospect. And then, finally, something went right, and she became pregnant again.

She'd had, in the first years of her marriage, at least two miscarriages, very early on in the gestation. Her despair at this was profound; she feared that she'd never have a child, and she wanted one so very badly. A child would be a connection to her dead parents, to a time she was happy and someone loved her. Vernon's role in the equation was vague. The child would be his as well; but Petunia was sure she would love it despite that. Vernon, too, wanted a child-or said he did. He was vocally disappointed about the miscarriages and blamed them—no surprise-on Petunia.

By some miracle this pregnancy was trouble-free, and the baby, born very late on July 30th, was plump and healthy—a perfect baby boy. Petunia felt a surge of rare happiness, immediately compromised by a sharp quarrel with Vernon over the baby's name.

Petunia wanted to call the baby after her father—Harri Llewellyn Dursley. Vernon hated that name; as far as he was concerned, it was not only working class, it was (shudder) ethnic. Vernon wanted to call the baby Dudley—a posh name, he said, that would help the boy later in life. Petunia thought she had never heard such an awful name, ever, particularly as Vernon combined it with his own. To be fair, Dudley's initials hadn't seemed as absurd at the time as they would later.

If Petunia hoped that a child would improve her marriage, she gradually became miserably aware that with the birth of Dudley, she had handed Vernon a weapon that he would wield against her without compunction. And he did.

If she complained about Vernon's behaviour, he would say curtly, "If you don't like it, get out. But leave the baby; you can't look after him properly, and you know it; you're too unstable." Petunia was particularly irritated to be told that she _knew_ something, and Vernon realized it; he never stopped informing her of things she supposedly knew. One of the things he told her that she knew was that he'd get the best lawyer, and she would end up penniless on the street, a homeless bag lady, talking to herself in public; and she'd never see Dudley again.

"Marge said she'd move in and help me with the baby," Vernon would say, smirking. Petunia loathed her abrasive sister-in-law and the feeling was entirely mutual. The thought of her raising Dudley was horrible to contemplate, at least for Petunia. Vernon also pointed out that Number 4, Privet Drive, had been purchased with his share of his grandmother's estate. "You've never contributed anything," he sneered, "All you do is sit on your duff and indulge your nerves. You're just useless. Don't think another man would have you, either. It makes me laugh to think about it. I wanted to help you, and it's too bad for me that I'm such a nice bloke; you've been ungrateful from Day One. "

"Well, maybe not Day One," Petunia would retort, unable to restrain the unfortunate penchant for sarcasm that her mother had warned her about, "more like Day Two." This would lead to another diatribe about her ingratitude. If she argued, Vernon would become louder and more aggressive; he would thrust his face close to hers and start shouting. Petunia was often reduced to tears, not of fear, but of humiliation that she had been reduced to this. Fear followed later; Vernon became more and more aggressive, often pushing and shoving her as he berated her. Though she noticed that he was careful not to leave marks—so far.

Petunia felt bewildered. What was she doing wrong? Why was she so unhappy, and why was she making such a shambles of her marriage? Her isolation did not help. She had no close family to confide in, and she had not acquired any friends. Social occasions usually involved Vernon's co-workers. The female of this species would congratulate her on having such a caring, thoughtful husband; such a nice man, he was the office fount of advice and assistance; she must be so proud of him and happy to be married to him; and Petunia would nod weakly. If he behaved badly at home, she supposed that it must be her fault.

Everything was her fault.

It wasn't long before Petunia began to contemplate suicide. She felt utterly hopeless and alone; Vernon was intent upon alienating her only child from her; it would be better for Dudley if he wasn't pulled apart between the two of them. No one would miss her and her misery would end. This dismal speculation ended suddenly one morning when Petunia came downstairs for breakfast. As usual, breakfast was already made, which Petunia had come to expect. What she didn't expect was to see was someone—or something—making it.

She thought she was finally going mad, truly and deeply. She saw a creature in the middle of her kitchen floor, looking at her with ill-concealed disdain. It looked a bit like one of those small troll dolls—she had had one as a child—with bright grey-blue eyes, a clean garment made from what appeared to be tea towels, and a sour expression.

Petunia dropped the mug she was carrying and gave a faint scream.

The creature frowned at her. It snapped its fingers and the broken mug and spilled tea disappeared. "Mistress!" it—he—said, disapprovingly. "Please sit down, and stop making all that noise!"

Mesmerized, Petunia sat. The thing gave her a faintly approving look. "That's better; I'm glad you can finally see me. It will make things easier."

"Finally see you?" Petunia squeaked. "How long have you been here?"

"For some time," he said evasively, "Since your great-great-aunt died. But you haven't been able to see me up to now. I'm glad that's finally improving, though."

"My great-aunt?" Petunia asked tremulously. Whom did he mean?

"Your great-aunt, Cressida Mayhew," said the creature, with disapproval. "She died recently, and by the terms of her will, her estate was left to you as her senior magical relative."

Petunia did remember her she-could-not-remember-how-many-times great-aunt. She and Lily had been dragged, very reluctantly, by Marigold on visits to her when they were children. She had lived in a very odd-looking little village-Petunia could not remember the name-in a large decaying house full of sinister darkened rooms and weird stuffed birds. Just the place to film a Hitchcock movie, Marigold had always said. "Her will?"

"Yes, and once you could see me, you were to come with me to her solicitor as soon as it can be arranged."

"And you are?"

His name was Pompey ('after the great Roman general') and he was a house-elf, whatever that was. He had belonged to Petunia's Great-Aunt Cressida, and now, he said, he belonged to her. Petunia suspected that she had now begun to actively hallucinate. The pink elephants were undoubtedly next. But she did agree on the trip to the lawyer, impelled by curiosity, if nothing else; and that led to Petunia's second visit to Diagon Alley.

The first one had been with Lily and her parents to purchase Lily's school supplies for Hogwarts in her first year. Petunia had not wanted to go, but had been too intrigued not to. She had found Diagon Alley deeply fascinating, but pretended to disdain it, because-well, because she was feeling angry and resentful and envious, that's why. Petunia sighed. She wished she was on speakers now with Lily, for she deeply needed someone to talk to. But her fear of rejection was deeply ingrained; she also feared Vernon's reaction. As miserable as the status quo was, she knew well that it could be worse. That's what she told herself, anyway, not wanting to admit that telling Lily how wretched her life currently was would also be deeply humiliating. Petunia did not want to think any more about that, knowing full well that pity parties were dead-end streets, and that she was too much inclined to them as it was.

Pompey, with the air of someone reluctantly lending his expertise to a passing half-wit, led her to the Alley two days later. Petunia did not particularly mind his manner, however; Vernon's was scarcely better, and she had become rather used to it. The Alley had not changed much, though Petunia had not seen all of it on her first visit, and certainly not the section given over to legal offices.

_Flywheel, Lightbody, and Flywheel, Barristers and Solicitors,_ was inscribed in flaking gold paint on the rather dusty bow window of the lawyers in question. Petunia and Pompey were allotted the younger Flywheel, who turned out to be a rather callow-looking man in his twenties, with braided brown hair and an earring. Petunia could just hear Vernon on _that_ subject, and the decline of British mores as evidenced by it.

Mr. Flywheel greeted them politely. He had, he told Petunia, been the Mayhew family solicitor for some years, having inherited the role from his father. Miss Cressida was the last member of the family to bear the name. She had died some time ago, and Petunia was her chief beneficiary.

"What about my sister?" Petunia asked.

"Mrs. Potter has declined her share in your favour." This was the first time Petunia heard Lily was married. "I understand that Mr. Potter is independently wealthy." Petunia felt both ashamed and humiliated—ashamed that Lily had been so generous to her, given their last encounter, and humiliated that she needed Lily's generosity. Then she felt a surge of hope. Money meant freedom—freedom from Vernon, specifically. Freedom from his complaints, his threats, his smug self-regard, his 'mean little soul' as Lily—with absolute accuracy, Petunia noted in hindsight—had described it. She could now take Dudley and disappear; within a heartbeat, she was speculating on which country would be the best sanctuary.

Mr. Flywheel brought her back down to earth with a bump. "There's a condition on the bequest, of course. It must go to a witch or a wizard." Petunia felt her heart sink. "My sister knows I'm not a witch. She must have told you that."

"She instructs me that you _will_ be able to pass the equivalency; it's just going to take some time."

Petunia felt frustrated: why had Lily lied to this man? She would never be able to pass the tests; Squibs did have a little magic, but not enough, and it was useless to pretend that she ever would. Mr. Lightbody instructed her that the estate would go into trust until she achieved the estate's pre-condition. And since the estate would go elsewhere if she didn't achieve it, the income from the estate would also be held in trust. Petunia sighed. The escape hatch had just been slammed shut.

After that, she scarcely listened as Mr. Flywheel droned on about the contents of the estate—a manor house, two cottages, some other real estate in Hogsmeade—Hogsmeade!-that was the name of the village! A London townhouse (rented out), a Cornwall vacation property (also rented out), a Gringotts bank vault, and so forth. It was like torture. Freedom dangled in front of her nose, and then snatched away; her frustration was intense. At the end of the list, Mr. Flywheel the Younger informed her that the estate would be hers once she passed the tests for magical proficiency.

"And when do I take these tests?" Petunia asked without much interest. She had given up arguing with these people.

"Mrs. Potter told me that you can't take them yet. She going to arrange it when she thinks you will be able to pass." _That'll be the twelfth of never, Mr. Flywheel, I do assure you._

Petunia dragged herself back to Little Whinging, feeling more depressed that ever. While she sat slumped on a bench beside the railway tracks, she wondered if her sister had set this up just to torment her. _If she did, I deserve it; I deserve it all._

Only the presence of Pompey prevented her from throwing herself on the tracks. The house elf stuck to her like glue, complaining about having to do so all the while.

Since Pompey did not—or would not—go away, Petunia decided that she would have to live with him, literally, as well as figuratively. There were compensations, however. Without his help in the house, she suspected that Vernon would already have taken action against her. She heard him one day, speaking to Marge on the telephone—"She can't be having a breakdown, Marge, the housework's always done, and that doctor feller told me that would be the first to go. No—I don't want to commit her—not yet." _Touching,_ Petunia thought. _He'll keep me around as long as _he's_ not suffering._

And though Pompey seemed disdainful of her and he openly despised 'that fat Muggle', as he called Vernon, he took to Dudley at once, and was a tremendous help with him. His usually sour pout would become a sour smile, and he would animate toys for Dudley's amusement. Dudley's face would light up when the odd little creature came into view. Petunia was terrified, though, about Dudley mentioning Pompey to Vernon when he began to speak. "Not to worry," Pompey said. "He won't. I have a spell for that." He indeed seemed to have a spell for everything.

Pompey had haughtily inspected the house, and selected the cupboard under the stairs as his lair. Petunia cleaned it thoroughly, repainted the interior, and found some bedclothes for him, since he insisted on staying. She purchased him a child's mattress, too, and buried the expense in the household budget. He sniffed, and said: "It will have to do." Petunia rolled her eyes and wondered if she hadn't been landed with a miniature and magical version of Vernon.

He certainly differed from Vernon in one way; he was a tireless worker, and seemed happy only if asked to do more. In fact, he complained bitterly if he had—in his opinion-too little to occupy himself. When Petunia suggested that he take a day off, he retired to his lair in high dungeon, and sulked for some time. He then informed her, with brittle dignity, that she had insulted him. Was she saying that he wasn't doing his job properly?

"No!" Petunia said, exasperated. "You do your job very well indeed. At least, I think you do; I can't say that I have a lot of experience with house elves. I just thought you might want to visit family—or something."

"House elves don't take holidays," Pompey pronounced, with grim hauteur. "Never ask me to do so again."

Petunia wondered how she always managed to end up in the wrong. It never seemed to fail. But she forgave Pompey his charmless personality when his magical animations made Dudley laugh; Dudley was a serious little boy, and so the sound was a rare one. On this point, Petunia and Pompey reached rare agreement: they both loved Dudley, and as a result they tried to co-operate, despite Petunia's ignorance of magical culture and Pompey's contempt for all things Muggle.

And it was Pompey who came into the kitchen on a cold morning that November and informed her that there had been a delivery for her during the night.


	5. Chapter 5: HOCUS POCUS

CHAPTER FIVE: HOCUS POCUS

"Mistress!" said Pompey. "There's a baby on the doorstep!"

"Not now, Pompey," Petunia said absently, "If I overcook this, it will—what did you say?"

"There's a baby on the doorstep-with a note."

Petunia snatched the fry-pan from the stove, turned off the gas, and dashed to the door. There was indeed a baby on the doorstep, wrapped in a blanket. Pompey was bending over him. His long fingers were tracing a lightning-shaped mark on the child's forehead, which was bleeding sluggishly.

"A magical baby," Pompey said reverently. He handed her an envelope. Petunia bent and gathered the baby into her arms—she couldn't leave him out in the autumn chill, that's for sure; even if she were hallucinating him, as she suspected she must be. Despite the bleeding mark, he appeared to be sleeping. She sat down at the kitchen table, the child in the crook of one arm, and read the letter.

It was from Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts School. Petunia remembered him, if not with affection. She gasped at the letter's contents, and began to tremble. She handed it wordlessly to Pompey. The facts set out in it were horrifying—Lily and her husband were dead and those damnable wizards had actually dumped their orphaned infant on her wintry doorstep. At night! She would never to be quite able to forgive them for this piece of negligent lunacy.

The child was dressed warmly and bundled in a blanket, but had no other clothes nor equipment with him, though Petunia knew he must have had some somewhere. She did not know how he had failed to even catch cold during the night, but it did not assuage her fury even slightly. Her anger at Dumbledore awoke something else: anger at Vernon. It felt a lot better to her than anger at herself.

Pompey read the letter quickly, then looked up at Petunia. She looked numbly back, absently rocking the child. There was a noise from upstairs. "Vernon," Petunia whispered. Sunday mornings, he usually slept in. What would Vernon say? This mantra governed Petunia's existence and she hated that fact.

Petunia expected that Vernon would be difficult about Lily's baby, and that proved to be a complete understatement. He had liked Lily precisely as much as she had liked him, and he most certainly didn't want the burden of her son. And then there was the problem of magic. Vernon knew, in a vague sort of way, about Lily being a witch. But he had never lived with a magical being before (well except for Pompey, and that didn't count, exactly, as Vernon managed to live with him without ever meeting him), and Petunia, recalling Lily's childhood, thought that he would not take kindly to the experience.

The death of her last remaining adult relative also hit Petunia hard. She had resented Lily, had treated her poorly, had blamed her for the deaths of their parents. But other memories suddenly flooded in: picking fruit together for the Christmas cakes Marigold baked every December, going to the pantomime with their father, swimming during seaside vacations in Devon, braiding each other's hair, playing cards, watching the telly_. I've got to keep control of myself, and stop thinking. Well—that sounds bad, but I know what I mean. I think. What will become of little Harry if I don't get it together?_

For Lily had won the battle in _her_ household; her little son had been named for their father. He had the Evans eyes, too; bright green, though Petunia missed the curling reddish hair—his was dark and straight. The letter had told her his birth date, which was the very day after Dudley's, oddly enough.

Pompey prodded little Harry delightedly and repeated: "A _magical _baby!" _At least _he's_ happy._

If Petunia had been considering escape, she could no longer. The wards, as explained in Dumbledore's letter, tied her to Privet Drive as securely as chains. But Privet Drive meant Vernon, and Vernon saw Harry as even more of a weapon against Petunia than Dudley was. As Vernon put it, he had not the remotest attention of paying Petunia child maintenance for Dudley. If she left, Dudley was staying with him. She could go, and take her sister's spawn with her, with his goodwill and the devil take the hindmost; but he was keeping his house and his son.

It didn't take long for Vernon to realize that the best way to harass Petunia was to harass Harry. He threw himself at that notion with enthusiasm. Petunia simply couldn't believe that he would verbally and emotionally abuse a toddler just to torment her. What kind of man did that? His kind, apparently.

When Vermon was in a good mood, he ignored Harry. When he was in a middling one, he paid a lot of attention to Dudley, by way of showing Harry that he didn't matter. Petunia was pleased to see that this made Dudley uncomfortable, and that Harry didn't seem to care, mainly because this meant that he would have Petunia's attention—she felt obliged to make it up to him. He enjoyed being read to, which Petunia was willing to do; and walks in the park and card games—it had to be something cheap, because Petunia had no money, and Vernon refused to pony up any for Harry. His room and board were costly enough, he complained. Though Dudley had no trouble in sharing his toys with Harry, Vernon forbade it—he had purchased those toys for Dudley, by God, and they would be used by Dudley only, or he'd know the reason why. The boys learned to play together only when Vernon was at work, or on the links. When he was home, Harry learned to stick to Petunia's side or to retire to the cupboard under the stairs to play with Pompey. But the worst times were when Vernon was in a bad mood. Then he actively sought out harry and would lecture him (and Petunia) on Harry's uselessness, the expense of housing him, and the trouble he was putting them to. If Petunia tried to intervene, he would push her away, and continue. The child was bored and restless with such treatment, and then Vernon would complain about that, too.

So far, Vernon had not graduated to physical abuse, but Petunia always feared he would.

Vernon felt no pity, no guilt. He quite frankly hated Harry—'that little leech'—as he called him. Harry returned the enmity in spades. This odd little scrap of humanity was unusually resilient, and he despised Vernon with an almost adult contempt. His name for Vernon was 'the whale.' Petunia should have corrected him about this, she knew. She didn't, however; she didn't see the point of trying to make Harry respect a man who so obviously disliked him. She did tease him, however, telling him if Vernon was a whale, she must be a giraffe. Harry had grinned beamingly up at her, and exclaimed, "I likes giraffes!"

Harry was the only person in her life that could make Petunia laugh.

It was after Harry's arrival that Vernon's general behaviour went from bad to very bad indeed. He kept agitating for Harry to be sent to a foster home, and Petunia's utter refusal to contemplate this enraged him, or so he claimed. Petunia clung to the child fiercely, as if he were all that attached her to sanity, as perhaps he was. Vernon, beginning very early, had tried to detach Dudley from her—offering fun, outings, treats—and treating her contemptuously in front of the child, overtly inviting him to do the same. Dudley merely looked anxious when things exploded, as they often did. He did not have Vernon's 'mean little soul' as Lily had so accurately termed it, once upon a time. That was the only consolation Petunia had. Well, that and Harry. Vernon's venom towards them both forged a strong bond between the two of them. Fellow soldiers in the line of fire, Petunia thought ruefully.

So Petunia stopped thinking about suicide. She couldn't desert Harry; Vernon would have him in a foster home in no time flat and as for those damnable wizards—no. Dumbledore had made the operation of the wards clear in his letter. She had to forget about self-destruction, so instead, she began to think about destruction, plain and simple—Vernon's.

This was an entirely happier speculation. Petunia had come to loathe Vernon so completely that she felt no guilt about it. But she had to be cautious; she knew Marge would let nothing get past her. Hitmen could talk, and besides, they didn't exactly advertise. She didn't know enough about mechanics to sabotage Vernon's car, and library books were not much help in enlightening her. As for poison—hadn't she read an Agatha Christie mystery once about a poison that mimicked certain diseases? But thalium was difficult to get and expensive to buy. And Marge would be certain to demand an autopsy if the circumstances of Vernon's death were suspicious. Petunia briefly considered including Marge in her plans, but abandoned it rather regretfully. As awful as her sister-in-law was, Petunia could not see herself killing Marge. After all, Marge's only real crime was her fondness for Vernon.

Then one day, Vernon did lose his temper completely, though luckily it was with her and not Harry; he finally made a mistake and hit her. Petunia called the police, and Vernon, to his pained surprise, was arrested for assault. But Petunia was used to having no luck, and this occasion eventually conformed to the pattern. With Marge's financial assistance, Vernon hired a legal barracuda, and in no time, Petunia was defending herself against charges that she had caused the bruises on her face herself to frame her unfortunate and innocent-he said-husband. Of course, since she was left-handed, it would have been next to impossible for her to do so, but the barracuda used Petunia's medical records against her to great effect. Her own counsel advised dropping the charges and letting Vernon come home. Petunia despairingly took his advice, though the day that Vernon strutted triumphantly down Number Four's front walk was one of the worst of her life, despite the fact that it had plenty of competition.

The tension in the household became increasingly intolerable. Vernon wanted Petunia and Harry gone; Petunia would not leave Dudley in Vernon's clutches, and could not abandon the wards. Petunia was miserably aware that an explosion was coming and feared what form it would take when it came.

And then there was Pompey. Vernon never seemed to see him, nor suspect his presence. But the house-elf was becoming more and more angry about 'that fat Muggle's' behaviour. He treated the boys to diatribes about Vernon, which, since they accurately echoed Petunia's opinions, she let go. She knew she shouldn't criticize Vernon to the boys, all the books said so. Damn the books, and their mealy-mouthed advice. Vernon was a passive-aggressive bully of the first degree, and she no longer cared to deny it to anyone, particularly to the two human eyewitnesses. Both boys were smart, and their opinion of their nominal male role model was correspondingly low.

To make matters worse, Harry began having magical outbursts. At first, they were quite small in scale, thank God, and usually in the daytime, while Vernon was away. Then Harry had a minor one in front of Vernon. Petunia knew that he had seen it, but then he had consumed several lagers that day, and was quite obviously unsure of the source of the toy floating past his nose. So that time, they got by. Unfortunately, on the next occasion, Vernon was stone cold sober.

His fury was frightening. "He's a damn freak!" Vernon shouted. "A FREAK!"

"I can hear you," Petunia responded icily, "and so can all the neighbours."

That was one of the few things that could still quiet Vernon; deeply conventional, he hated any intimation that he was being _talked about_. He moderated his tone, but not his rage. "Get that misbegotten little monster out of my house!" he hissed at Petunia. "Or don't you remember what happened to your parents?"

"I remember. I saw it." Petunia said. _I still dream about it._

"He's a danger to us! What if that Lord Thing-gummy comes back to finish the job, hey? They'll be finding signs in the sky above _our_ burnt-out house!"

"Lord Voldemort is dead," Petunia said flatly, suppressing the information she had to the contrary, and deciding, in the interest of both herself and Harry, not to mention the Death Eaters, nor the wards.

But Petunia did feel obliged to write to Dumbledore, asking him to consider moving Harry from their home. Not because she wanted him to go, because she didn't; but for his own safety from Vernon's harassment. She asked Pompey to deliver it, which she thought he did—at first. But later Petunia wondered about that. Pompey doted on Harry ("_A magical baby!_") and she would be prepared to bet that he had read the letter himself. In any case, there was no answer. Suspecting that Pompey had suppressed it, Petunia tried regular mail; that letter was returned, and when Pompey saw it, he sulked for a full week altogether, and refused outright to help in the house. That lesson was a hard one; Petunia discovered how dependant she had become on Pompey for help with the housework and child care. She didn't try again.

She had feared Pompey would favour Harry over Dudley, because Harry was a wizard, but that did not seem to be the case. He still loved Dudley, and spent a good deal of time with both boys, demonstrating magic, and amusing them with it. Petunia warned him that Harry might emulate him at the wrong time, but Pompey ignored her, as he always did when it pleased him to do so. She was only a Muggle, after all, as far as he was concerned. But he also warned her that his own magic would not extend to suppressing Harry's.

Damn. Petunia wondered why life was never easy. But if Harry's magical outbursts were a huge problem, they were nothing compared to the donnybrook that broke out on Dudley's fifth birthday.

Vernon, with a petty mean-spiritedness that set Petunia's teeth on edge, refused to have joint birthday party for the boys, or even separate ones. He would fund a party for Dudley, he said, but not for Harry. No gifts for him, either. Petunia managed to cover this dictum by explaining to the boys that Dudley, as the senior of the two of them by one whole day, would receive birthday gifts for both of them, and by scheduling an outing for the next weekday to celebrate Harry's birthday. It worked reasonably well while the boys were small—at least until Dudley's fifth birthday party.

Marge was laid up with sciatica, and did not attend, to Petunia's relief. By way of compensation, she shipped a variety of presents to Privet Drive, all conspicuously labelled to Dudley. She agreed with Dudley on the subject of Harry; she sent nothing for him. Petunia gritted her teeth.

Dudley opened the gifts diffidently, and then made the mistake of handing one of them to Harry. "Give that back," Vernon snapped at Harry. He'd been sniping nastily at Harry all day; the child had had enough. Harry jumped to his feet, took aim, and threw the toy in Vernon's face. Vernon exploded. He chased Harry through the house, blundering into the furniture, roaring with fury.

Harry was very fast, but rage propelled Vernon to unusual effort. He finally caught Harry and started to shake him; Harry's face began to turn red. Petunia rushed to intervene, but he threw her off. Then Dudley grabbed his father's arm; the room was illuminated by a brilliant light, and Vernon hit the wall, gasping.

Vernon stared at Dudley. "My God!" he exclaimed. "He's a-he's one of those—that little leech's infected him!"


	6. Chapter 6: BELL, BOOK & CANDLE

My thanks to those who posted reviews.

Moi, Lily's reaction was governed by shock and hysteria, and not much else.

Katzztar, terrific guess; you just got the wrong character. The right one is suggested by the title of Chapter Three.

CHAPTER SIX: BELL, BOOK & CANDLE

Vernon gripped Dudley by the shoulders and started to shake _him_ this time: "Never—_never_-NEVER do that again!" he roared, and flung the child away. Dudley hit the floor, hard, and began to howl, more in shock than pain, it appeared. Petunia launched herself at Vernon, and her momentum knocked him off his feet. She then scrambled on her knees to Dudley, grabbed his wrist, and collared Harry with her other hand. They were on their feet and out the door before Vernon could recover his senses.

Petunia dragged the boys down the darkening street and then hesitated; where she could go? As she stood there, gasping for breath, while Dudley cried and Harry tried to pull her further on, she heard a cough.

She looked around. It was Mrs. Figg.

Mrs. Figg lived in the house across from Number 4, Privet Drive, with a pack of notoriously malodorous cats. She was a woman in her fifties or sixties-Petunia wasn't sure which-who wore a pair of thick eyeglasses, and had an air of absent-minded eccentricity. She had a cat in her arms, and had obviously been out in the early evening searching for it. Or so Petunia concluded at the time.

"Did you need some help, Mrs. Dursley?" Mrs. Figg asked matter-of-factly.

"Yes!" Petunia gasped. "Please, can we come to your house?"

"Of course," Mrs. Figg said placidly, leading the way.

Petunia plunked herself and the boys on Mrs. Figg's couch—which smelt, not surprisingly, of cats-and began to cry, joining Dudley's howls in two-part harmony. Harry disentangled himself from his aunt and ran to shut the door. Mrs. Figg pulled the blinds and turned on the lights.

Mrs. Figg made Petunia a cup of tea, into which she poured a generous jigger of brandy. Petunia accepted it gratefully, and slowly began to calm down. Mrs. Figg cleaned Dudley's cuts and bruises, and gave him some aspirin. She produced some sweets for Harry, which he accepted politely but did not eat. Petunia agreed with him, if only in her mind; it was no time for sweets.

"Thank you; you've been awfully kind," Petunia said awkwardly. She had scarcely spoken to Mrs. Figg before this, and she felt both uncomfortable and guilty.

"Not to worry," Mrs. Figg said, patting Petunia's hand. "Do you want me to call the police?"

"Oh, no—I don't want that," Petunia said. The police had tried to help her in the past, but she dreaded court; the last fiasco, now a couple of years old, made her cautious. The adversarial system seemed designed to protect the perpetrator, rather than the victim, in her experience. She waited for Mrs. Figg to ask her what happened, but the older woman did not.

"My husband's angry about-about—"

"He's discovered that your son is a wizard," Mrs. Figg said calmly.

Mrs. Figg, as it turned out, was her keeper. Those damnable wizards, the ones who had dumped Harry on her doorstep like a bundle of unwanted washing, had taken _some_ precautions, apparently. But Petunia wondered why, if Dumbledore bothered to set a spy on them, why he appointed a squib—not a wizard-as the said spy. Mrs. Figg would scarcely be much help in a Death Eater emergency. But she did not voice this opinion out loud; it was scarcely tactful, especially given Mrs. Figg's assistance on this occasion.

"How did you know Dudley was a wizard?" Petunia asked her curiously.

"Dumbledore told me that his name was down for Hogwarts, and has been since birth," said Mrs. Figg. "Ergo, he's a wizard."

"He didn't tell _me_ that," Petunia said. She felt resentful. If she had known that, she'd have—well, she wasn't exactly sure, but she should have been told, shouldn't she? _Nobody tells me anything._

She settled the boys on the couch in front of the telly—their favorite show was on, and Dudley had calmed down considerably. Then she and Mrs. Figg went into the kitchen for another cup of tea, this one without the brandy. Petunia wanted information, as did Mrs. Figg; it just wasn't the _same_ information. Petunia was now in the position of getting it from a person delegated to spy on her.

"Harry's been having magical outbursts for some time," Petunia said. "But not Dudley. He had one today, though, a really obvious one, in front of his father." Mrs. Figg nodded.

"Will he be a—normal wizard? Rather than a squib?" _Not so tactful, true, but then Petunia was a squib, too._

Mrs. Figg looked surprised. "I don't see why not," she said. "There're no hard and fast rules for wizarding children, of course. Harry may show more magical signs because he saw his parents using magic from infancy. Supposedly, Muggleborn children have a later commencement time with magic because they just don't see it performed from the beginning."

Petunia had a sudden vision of Pompey patiently demonstrating magic to Dudley, over and over. _He'd known; or suspected. _"Pompey!" she exclaimed.

There was a pop, and Pompey appeared, a giant Cheshire Cat grin on his face. "Master Dudley is indeed a wizard!" he cried.

"I'm glad _you're_ happy," Petunia commented sourly. Pompey took absolutely no notice of her, and so what else was new? He was greeted with acclaim by the children, and settled in to watch television with them, doing magic to distract them during the commercials. _And I never suspected-not once._

Mrs. Figg coughed, and said, "Dudley was probably having mild episodes, but Muggle-born children start slower; and of course, Muggles commonly don't recognize them for what they are." _And I would have expected his episodes to be like Harry's, and they probably weren't._

Petunia nodded, and then Mrs. Figg said: "A house elf! I've never seen one in a Muggle household! Did Dumbledore allot him to you?"

Petunia opened her mouth to tell the tale of Cressida Mayhew, and then she closed it. She suddenly wondered if Pompey _was _something Dumbledore had allotted to her, under the guise of an inheritance. And she remembered that Mrs. Figg was a spy. So she shrugged. Mrs. Figg took that as a yes, and said nothing more.

When Petunia herded the boys back to Number 4, she found to her relief that Vernon wasn't there. In fact, he did not return until late the next night. He thus established a new pattern in their lives; he rose early, and ate breakfast out before he went to work; and he returned late, having dined out. He ignored Petunia, Dudley and Harry completely, and slept in the spare room.

The good part of the new regime was that his family rarely saw him. They missed him not at all. The bad part was that to support all his restaurant visits, he cut Petunia's household budget to the bone. She and the boys ate packaged noodles and vegetables from the garden and very little else. Petunia was underweight in the first place, and she managed to drop another stone. She was concerned to note that though Dudley and Harry ate exactly the same diet, Dudley was somewhat overweight, and Harry was somewhat underweight.

This status quo remained in place for some time. Vernon seemed to be in a holding pattern, while he considered what to do. Dudley's condition seemed to have overset him and his plans completely, and his feral little mind kept trying to find a way out. Petunia thought that he must hate that feeling; it was usually her role in the equation.

But after nearly a year to consider his situation, Vernon finally made a decision, and called her into the lounge to receive his pronouncement.

"Dudley will be a wizard," Vernon said menacingly, "over my dead body." _Well, I was trying to arrange that for you, as it happens. And if I had the money for a hit man, you'd get your wish. _

"I'm going to do something about it," he continued. _Good luck on that, you moron_. "Have Dudley here tomorrow, at 2:00 p.m. I want him to meet someone."

Petunia seriously considered taking the boys to the park instead, and be damned to Vernon. But she sensed that Vernon was seriously on edge, and thus taunting him would be unwise. She took the precaution of farming Harry out with Pompey—he provoked Vernon just by his very presence—and had herself and Dudley in the lounge of Number Four at the appointed time.

Vernon was standing there, with a very young man, a bit pimply even, wearing a priest's cassock and collar.

"This is Father Mulroney," he said. The young man gave her an eager smile, and shook hands.

"He's here to-to take care of it."

"Take care of what?" Petunia asked, mystified. Since Vernon was very anti-Catholic—'those scheming Papists' was his parrot cry—she was very surprised to see a priest in the house.

"He's going to do an exorcism. On Dudley."

"For God's sake, Vernon!" Petunia cried, "We're Methodists!"

Vernon looked at her as if she were particularly dim. "Have you ever heard of a Methodist exorcism?" he asked her sarcastically.

"Not recently," Petunia responded, equally sarcastic.

"We need an exorcism, and the Pa—Catholics do them. So we're going to be Catholics."

"We don't need an exorcism, you idiot! There's nothing wrong with Dudley!"

"That's your opinion, and let's not forget that you're crazy!"

"Consider the source of _that_ information," muttered Petunia.

The young priest looked bewildered by the sniping between the people he thought he was there to help. Petunia almost felt sorry for him. Eventually, because she perceived him to be harmless and well-intentioned, she gave it up and let the exorcism go ahead. What could it hurt? She was fairly certain that magic could not be exorcised, but in any case, they were about to find out.

At Father Mulroney's direction, Vernon held Dudley tightly on his lap and kept him still through what seemed like a very long Latin prayer, with—as Petunia put it later—attendant cross-wavings and finger dabblings. Dudley was thoroughly bored, and squirmed a bit; the priest took this to be a sign that the (alleged) evil spirit was leaving his soul. Petunia didn't argue, though she wished Vernon was the one that was being exorcised; then poor Father Mulroney would have had a much bigger bang for his buck, so to speak; or so she reckoned. Vernon was radiant; he was absolutely certain that he had saved his son from life as a wizard, and in doing so, solved all his problems. He was, to the say the least of it, overly sanguine.

Vernon was thoroughly pleased with himself for about six weeks, and then Dudley, like clockwork, had another magical outburst, this time even more obvious, and right in front of his father. Vernon's rage and disappointment knew no bounds; he threw his rosary out the window, stopped attending mass, and soundly cursed the Pope. So much for joining the Pa—Catholics.

And then, about two months after that, he showed up with another exorcist.

"This is Mr. Arcos," he said to Petunia.

The young priest had been merely an optimist; this man, Petunia thought, seemed to be a full-blown charlatan, neither harmless nor well-intentioned. The type that did sleight of hand, and parted you from your money at the same time—an even bigger trick. He was short and hirsute, with greying hair, and small darting black eyes that held a distinctly cynical expression. His teeth were stained and uneven; a half-smoked cigarette hung from his lip. He looked at the boys.

"Which one of them is it?" he asked, without much interest.

"Vernon!" Petunia cried. "Didn't you learn anything from the last time?"

"Yes," Vernon said. "I learned those Papists aren't worth a damn. You need somebody stronger." He indicated their guest and said, "He's going to do an exorcism, but it'll be a Satanist one this time."

"A Satanist one?"

"Of course. Fight fire with fire."

"I absolutely refuse to have anything to do with this, Vernon, and you are not inflicting this on Dudley! Not this time!"

They had a short, sharp quarrel, which ended with Vernon threatening Petunia—as usual. Meanwhile, the exorcist inspected the boys carefully. His eyes widened when he saw Harry's scar.

"Which one?" he said sharply, interrupting Vernon's usual litany of Petunia's deficiencies.

Vernon hesitated. "How much for both?" he asked, smirking at Petunia's horrified expression.

The little man looked up at Vernon. Petunia had the odd impression that he was about to abort the exorcism, but then Vernon pulled out his wallet. "How much?" he said imperiously. The man's eyes lit up at the sight of cash, but still he hesitated. But Vernon would not be denied. Finally the man named a price, and they haggled for some time before agreeing on a figure.

"Vernon-no! " Petunia cried. "You might hurt them!"

"I have to save Dudley!"

"Then why include Harry?" wailed Petunia.

"He infected Dudley once; he could do it again. He has to be taken care of, too."

Petunia stormed and wept, the boys clinging to her, but Vernon would not be moved. He also finally lost patience and started to push and prod her, as he usually did. Mr. Arcos said impatiently: "Stop that, and let's get on with it. I have another appointment scheduled in two hours, and I don't want to be late."

They went into the living room, and Vernon, at Mr. Arcos' direction, pushed the furniture to the walls, and rolled up the rug. Arcos then produced a bag of blue powder, which he shook onto the floor, forming a large circle with it. He motioned the boys into the centre of it. Petunia clutched them to her, refusing to let them go; Vernon seized her around the waist and wrenched her away from the now wailing children. Arcos swung them over the line of blue powder and into the circle with him. He drew another bag from his pocket, and scattered the black powder in it inside the blue line.

He began to chant in a language Petunia did not recognize; it did not seem to a European one. Middle-Eastern, she guessed. The boys huddled miserably within the circle, and Petunia thought that its blue powder border had begun to smoulder. She panicked and started to scream loudly. Vernon clapped his beefy hand over her mouth, and Petunia bit it, hard, drawing blood. The slap he gave her was well worth the price she paid.

The chant faltered, and Petunia, refocusing on the boys, saw that the smouldering powder was producing a lot of smoke. The house was shaking—surely the house was shaking? Then the room went dark, though it was mid-afternoon, and an intense crackling _thump_ shook the house even more.

The sound vaporized every piece of the porcelain in the china cabinet. It felt like a clap of thunder, monstrously close and loud. The room was illuminated with green light and a high wind—indoors?—whipped at the curtains and their clothes. Petunia wrenched herself from Vernon's grip and threw herself into the circle and over the boys and incidentally Arcos, all of whom were sprawled on the floor. Suddenly the noise stopped and the wind died, and the green light turned whitish blue. They watched as the room was wrecked outside the blue cordon.

Vernon scrambled on his knees to the door, and pulled himself through it, dodging the flying debris.

Petunia's last thought was: _I always knew he was a coward_.

When she next took in her surroundings, she saw that Arcos and the boys were scattered in an untidy heap, and she was draped over them. She pulled herself into a sitting position, and checked the boys, who were conscious, though both were seemingly in shock. Mr. Arcos was also awake, wide-eyed and trembling.

"What the _hell_ was that?" he cried.

Said Petunia, in a matter-of-fact voice: "That was the demon you exorcised."


	7. Chapter 7: THE ILLUSIONIST

Some very good guesses in the last chapters' reviews. Some of your will be answered-now.

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE ILLUSIONIST

The neighbours had listened to years of quarrels, thumps (the sounds of Vernon throwing things at the walls), threats and crying children without comment, but the results of a gypsy exorcism were evidently considered too much-finally. This time someone in the neighbourhood called the police. The police took a look around the lounge and called Child Protective Services. Vernon suffered his second arrest, this time for child endangerment. They nearly arrested Petunia, as well; only the utter terror of the children on the prospect of being separated from her saving the day. Well, that and the fact she had an adult eyewitness in Mr. Arcos; and Mr. Arcos was so taken aback by the whole experience that he actually told the truth when the police interrogated him. He was questioned closely, and then also arrested, on a charge of fraud. It was, a police officer informed Petunia, the last in a long line of them. But his story absolved her of the charge of child endangerment, and faced with two shocked and hysterical children, the police said that they were prepared to believe his story. A first. Another first was the fact that while he was arrested for a fraudulent exorcism, he wasn't really guilty of it, though Petunia doubted that he had delivered exactly what he had promised. At least she hoped not. Magical outbursts by both children within the next few days confirmed her suspicions.

At the subsequent Child Protection hearing, Petunia—now well conversant with the vagaries of the adversarial system-was not the least bit surprised to hear Vernon claiming that she had set him up. He hadn't meant to exorcise their son or her nephew; it had merely been a practical joke. Perhaps not as funny as it had seemed in the planning, but there you were. His shrew of a wife had taken an innocent jape and used it against him. It wasn't the first time, either; she had merely been waiting for another suitable opportunity to make him look bad. A long history of emotional troubles there, don't you know. And so forth. Father Mulroney answered a subpoena, but refused to say whether he had performed an exorcism or not. It was as confidential as the confessional, he said solemnly. Mr. Arcos proved far less discreet.

He'd been hired, he said, by that fat bloke—Dursley. Dursley had told him that his son was possessed by magical demons, or some damn stupid thing like that—he really didn't pay too much attention-and needed an exorcism. He dealt with fools like that every day. They'd believe _anything, _the stories he could tell—oh, sorry. Yes, about Dursley. No, his wife hadn't been involved. She had kept trying to get him to stop. Then Dursley had suddenly decided to include his nephew in the exorcism. He'd agreed to pay more for it. That made his wife even more determined to get him to stop, and in the end he had struck her and pulled her away from the children, and told Arcos to go ahead.

Vernon's lawyer had cross-examined Mr. Arcos without mercy, pointing out his long record for fraud. Arcos cheerfully admitted all of it. The lawyer suggested to him that Petunia was paying him to lie. He denied it. No money there, he said. That fat bloke had plenty, though, and flashed all around. What was he supposed to do-say no to him? If idiots wanted to give you money, you were a bigger idiot if you didn't take it, right?

"What proof have you that what you say is true?" thundered Vernon's lawyer. Arcos gave him a sly smile and handed over a videotape of his engagement interview with Vernon. Had Vernon known about the videotape? No, of course not. He made one for every client, though, so that there would be no misunderstandings. "No misunderstandings?" the lawyer had sneered. "You intended to use it for blackmail, didn't you?" Arcos had merely shrugged and smirked.

The videotape was damning. Vernon, the picture of goodwill, family devotion and good citizenship on the stand, was revealed as a crass, crude, obsessed bully. He swore, he shouted, he threatened. The judge's face grew increasingly grim as he watched. Vernon's obsession with magical possession also played poorly, as did his crude attitude toward Petunia, and his dislike of little Harry. The judge did not even bother with detailed reasons for judgment, and awarded full custody and guardianship of Dudley and Harry to Petunia then and there.

When the verdict was pronounced, Vernon attempted to assault both Arcos and Petunia in open court, did assault no less than three police officers, and it required five of them to restrain him in the end. He was promptly admitted to Brookwood Hospital For the Criminally Insane in Woking. There Vernon was deemed to be suffering from schizophrenia of the paranoid variety. The psychiatrists all agreed—'His delusions are quite consistent' as one report put it. Marge furiously appealed the decision, but even the psychiatric expert that she hired admitted that Vernon had hallucinations and that he was quite obviously both violent and dangerous.

The criminal charges of fraud against Mr. Arcos were adjourned, as he had agreed to plead guilty, rather to Petunia's surprise. "Why did you admit to fraud?" Petunia asked him when she encountered him outside the courthouse. "The exorcism was successful, you know that."

Arcos peered up at her, and muttered, "I know it, and I should know it. I've done dozens of them. That was the first real one, though. I never thought-" He was silent a moment. "The boys-they're both warlocks, aren't they?"

"Wizards," Petunia said.

"Wizards, then. And you're a witch."

"No."

"Yes, you are. You protected them—and me-when it came out."

Petunia said nothing.

"What was that-thing?" Arcos asked. "It wasn't his magic."

"No. It was the remains of a spell, I think," Petunia said. "Harry—my nephew-was attacked by a powerful wizard when he was a baby. You saw the scar?"

Arcos nodded. "My family's from Romania originally, so I know about magic, and yes, I've heard of Voldemort. We have some practitioners in our own family. I know that if you hadn't done—what you did-we would have all died. So I owe you one. I've got a record, but that idiot of a lawyer I've got will gas on about my 'deprived cultural background' and I'll get off, I think." That tape will help, of course.

He looked at Petunia and said, "Why do you stay married to that fat arsehole? You don't need to. You're a _witch_! They'd be lining up for you in Romania—you'd have your pick. And they'd be more than happy to have your boys in the family."

_Oh, why indeed. _

"If you want-I'll take care of him for you. That fat berk, I mean. They'd never find the remains, I know my business."

Here was the hitman Petunia had longed for! Irony, for certain.

"And—and—I'd be happy to marry you, if you would consider it."

My God, Petunia thought. I think I've just had my first proposal. Combined with an offer of homicide, no less. It's almost touching. Especially as she suspected that she would be a lot happier with this ugly little gypsy than she had ever been with Vernon Dursley. She assured Arcos that she would indeed consider his offer—of marriage, not murder—no reason to refuse outright; but first she had to negotiate the children's future with Child Protective Services.

That proved even more difficult that even she had feared. The social workers were of the opinion that Petunia had failed to protect the boys from Vernon, and had an undesirable history of emotional trouble, and therefore was probably an unsuitable sole custodial parent. _Oh, that's rich, Petunia thought, I tried to protect them, and what assistance did I get? The courts were utterly useless, and blamed me; and now they're blaming me because they were utterly useless. It's always my fault! If I knew how to curse them, they'd be damn sorry. I'd turn the damn lot of them into cockroaches, and laugh while I did it._

Eventually, however, they agreed that the boys would stay with her under their supervision. Petunia gave a sigh of relief at this, but her troubles on this front were scarcely over.

Marge gave up on getting Vernon unbinned and turned her attention to suing for custody of Dudley, on the grounds of Petunia's instability. Marge's chances weren't good, Petunia's lawyer assured her, but still, the lawsuit had to be defended, and that was expensive. Petunia's modest inheritance from her parents—the estate was finally settled-went on that. When Marge lost, Petunia had to mortgage Number 4 Privet Drive to fight her appeal. She had been appointed Vernon's _committee_ (due to _his _mental incapacity), which allowed her to encumber the home. Marge lost that one, too, but the judge agreed that she should be allowed access visits to Dudley, enough of a victory to reduce her costs. The second mortgage on Number 4 was necessary to get the access discontinued; Petunia claimed that Marge was trying to poison Dudley's mind against his mother and his cousin. Petunia was successful at that—the Court agreed that Marge's describing of her sister-in-law and Dudley's cousin as 'the devil's spawn' to her small nephew was _infra dig_-but when she surveyed her financialsituation, it felt likea defeat. The emotional stress of the constant lawsuits didn't help, either.

Petunia let Mr. Arcos down very lightly on the question of marrying him. She thanked him earnestly for the compliment, but told him she had decided to devote herself to the raising of her children. Besides, as she noted, the binning of Vernon would take on a suspicious cast if his ex-wife married the chief witness against him. Mr. Arcos conceded that point, but pressed Petunia to accept Vernon's assassination as a present from him and an expression of his sincere regard. Petunia fought down an impulse to accept, or rather, accept but substitute Marge as the victim, and again refused, regretfully. In the end, Mr. Arcos _was_ able to give Petunia a gift; at his insistence his 'idiot of a lawyer' arranged Petunia's divorce from Vernon for free. In the settlement, Petunia received Number 4 Privet Drive, mainly because it was so encumbered by the mortgages required to fight off Marge that there was very little equity left in it. Petunia was sincerely grateful. Her financial situation was so dire that she could not have afforded the divorce otherwise.

It still left her with a heavily mortgaged home, an incomplete education, no job, no work experience, and two small children to raise. But finally, she was free of Vernon; and that was freedom indeed. After ten miserable years, it was like being released from a prison camp. But like most survivors, Petunia had scars, and though they were invisible, they made themselves felt in the years ahead.


	8. Chapter 8: THE BROTHERS GRIMM

Janna: Dudley and Harry are about eight years old at the time of the divorce.

Katzztar: This does bring us up to the current time.

The reviews are much appreciated.

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE BROTHERS GRIMM

So Petunia embarked on her new career as a single parent. The plus side of her new life was not having to live with a person she loathed and who thwarted her at every turn. The minus side was not having his income to rely upon, and having to make decisions on her own. Vernon had basically made every household decision in their home in the last ten years. Petunia had bitterly resented this, but when it came to making the calls herself, she found that she was often paralyzed by indecision. She tried hard to overcome it, but it became obvious to her that she had underestimated the difficulties of life on her own. Or perhaps she was simply out of practice.

Not that she ever wanted Vernon back; it never got that bad. _It would never get that bad, never. Nuclear winter was preferable. _There were plenty of compensations: the main one was that she could now bring up her children as she chose. That was important, because raising wizards—especially without magic yourself-was a delicate business at the best of times, and needed all Petunia's focus.

The fallout from the Vernon regime was that the boys had no friends, and were estranged from most of their few remaining relatives. From the vague enmity between them fostered by Vernon at the start of their relationship, the boys had moved on to become fast friends. They hardly had a choice, Petunia thought; they no longer attended school nor participated in sports, so that in their age group, they saw only each other. They still fought occasionally, but without rancour; and if there was any threat to either of them—or to Petunia-from a third party, they presented a solid front.

Because Petunia felt her life had been blighted by an out-of-control case of sibling rivalry—hers, not Lily's-she was highly sensitive to treating the boys in the same way, only to find to her chagrin that it didn't really work. They were very different in temperament, and their needs were also different. Petunia remembered taxing her mother with preferring Lily to her, only to have Marigold say: "But, Pet, you and Lily aren't the same. It's apples and oranges." Irrelevant, Petunia had argued then, but now that she was in a similar situation, she saw her mother's point. There were things she liked about the boys, and things she didn't, but they weren't the same things in each case. But because they were both wizards, their differences played out as complementary, instead of adversarial, as it had with Petunia and Lily. They were a team. This relieved Petunia, but it also made her somewhat envious. _My God, I can even produce sibling rivalry with my own son. Now that takes real effort_.

It always astonished Petunia that Dudley showed no resemblance to Vernon whatsoever, except physically. But then, Harry did not seem very much like Lily either. She had not known James Potter well enough—socking someone in the jaw wasn't really a sufficient introduction—to tell whether Harry was like him, though then again there was a strong physical resemblance.

The boys were first cousins but looked nothing alike. Dudley had her fair colouring and blue eyes, Vernon's body type—alas—and her father's personality—thank God. He was methodical, patient, calm and self-contained. He also lacked Vernon's short fuse. Harry had Lily's bright green eyes, and looked like his father otherwise, thin, dark and myopic. He was as sharp as a needle factory and thought quickly on his feet, but Petunia feared that he was much too impulsive. Marigold Evans lived on, too; he had her insouciance, and her tendency to drop bricks in conversation, with the same air of innocent glee. Petunia lived in terror of what he might say to the wrong person. _His_ fuse burnt at both ends.

The binning of Vernon was considered by both the boys to be a blessing. The social worker had warned her that children were frequently highly protective of inadequate and even abusive parents, but the boys did not even pretend to be unhappy that Vernon was gone permanently. "No more exorcisms!" Harry said happily, and Dudley agreed. Dudley was equally relieved when he no longer had to visit Marge, for which Petunia could scarcely blame him, but it disturbed her that the boys were so isolated. She knew that they would be going to Hogwarts eventually, and hoped that they would make friends there. But she also dreaded the advent of their public school careers. How would these too sheltered children make out among the Nazi wizards? And how would she bear the utter loneliness of being without them?

That was the wrong attitude, and she knew it. It was not the boys' responsibility to make her happy. She noted that they did try, however. Petunia was grateful for that, well aware it was something like a miracle, and tried equally hard to reciprocate.

Yet Petunia felt uneasily that she was failing the boys, despite all her efforts. Homeschooling meant she couldn't work much, and so she could only just pay the bills. There was over nothing for extras or for treats. The boys simply stopped whinging for things after a time. Petunia thought that this sort of forbearance was unnatural at their ages; the social worker's wry comments about the unsuitability of them nurturing her rather than her nurturing them echoed in her brain.

Dudley could have benefitted from specialized instruction to help with his dyslexia, but Petunia could not afford it, so she hit the library and utilized every free resource that she could find. He wasn't as active he should be, either. Harry, on the other hand, had a high energy level—and that was another problem that Petunia felt she wasn't addressing adequately, if at all. Organized sports were out—magic outbursts were too frequent. So Petunia gave him household tasks instead, much to Pompey's disgust. At first she expected him to reject them as dull, but Harry seemed to enjoy just about any activity; though Petunia had to watch him carefully because he tended to carry things to extremes. Asked to weed the garden, she discovered him building a rockery in the corner of the yard, complete with waterfall, reflecting pool, and a circle of concrete gnomes he'd pinched from the neighbours. Asked to help tidy the basement, she found him attempting to frame a new room down there, not so badly either. Petunia refused to even speculate where he had obtained the lumber for it; though she had made him return each and every one of the gnomes with an apology. "Make him apologize to Muggles? A wizard?" said Pompey, who was horrified. Petunia told him to be silent, and he sulked for days.

Pompey also objected to either Dudley or Harry doing chores, but Petunia insisted, and taught both boys to cook, garden, do laundry, and housework; Dudley because he needed the exercise, and Harry because he needed theactivity. She also felt that otherwise they'd be entirely too dependent upon Pompey, who preferred to wait upon them hand and foot. The house elf claimed he was being shamed by his mistress and threatened to leave, child labour being an apparent deal-breaker in elfdom. "Go then," Petunia said, unmoved. Pompey sniffed angrily. But he stayed.

At one time, Petunia considered sending the boys to Beauxbatons rather than Hogwarts, mainly to spite 'those Nazi wizards' as she continued to call them. This involved trying to teach the boys French, a dicey business given Petunia's own imperfect command of the tongue. As a result, Harry started (and continued) calling her 'Tante', but the boys gained very little else from the exercise, and Petunia gave it up as yet another bad job.

For more practical instruction, Petunia relied upon teaching discs from the local library on subjects such as furnace maintenance, home repairs, and the use of simple tools. Of course, 'simple' was a word unknown to the boys. They were absolutely mesmerized by the discs, playing them over and over. Petunia, out of a sense of duty, watched them too, at least once, but was thoroughly bored by the subject. She reflected later that she should have paid more attention. A short time later, after a storm, she was horrified to find Harry straddling the apex of the roof of Number Four, happily hammering back into place shingles that had been blown away by the bad weather and subsequently retrieved by him. A male neighbour saw him, too; a first-class git in the Vernon mould, he enjoyed tearing a strip off Petunia for child endangerment, and threatened to report her, yet again, to Child Protective Services. That was a threat indeed, as far as Petunia was concerned. Dudley shared this opinion. He tugged at the neighbour's sleeve while the man was berating Petunia, and when he finally paused, and looked down, said to him in a dead-level voice, and with cold unchildlike eyes: "Make her cry and you're a dead man."

The man chose to roar with laughter at this, and walked away chuckling. Dudley watched him go, his face expressionless. Petunia knew what that meant; she panicked, anxiously charging the boys (for Harry, when he came down from the roof, heartily agreed with Dudley) not to kill nor injure their neighbour. "Alright, then," Dudley said, adding _sotto voce_, "not physically."

Petunia, aware of the concession that she had wrung from the boys, chose not to hear this. The next day the neighbour's lush lawn—of which he had been inordinately proud—withered and died as did all of his flowers and landscaping. He awoke every morning to find his garbage strewn all over his sere and blackened yard. He claimed that the Dursley boys were responsible, and even installed a surveillance camera to garner proof. The film, which he inspected feverishly every morning, showed nothing but a high wind which nightly battered his garbage bins. And only his. "That'll teach him," said Dudley, adding quickly when he caught Petunia's eye—"to recycle."

"And when," asked Petunia sarcastically, "do you think his lawn going to recover?"

"Dunno," said Dudley, giving her the blank look under which the boys hid a number of sins. "Maybe it's got a blight."

"There's always a good chance that blight might get better if he apologized to you, of course," Harry said, cheerfully.

"Pigs may fly, but they've got mighty poor wings for it," said Petunia. She couldn't see him apologizing—he was a full-bore domestic bully, and stubborn with it.

She was astonished therefore, when the neighbour called her over to the fence between their properties and yes, apologized, furtively and grudgingly, but it was an honest-to-God apology from an unrelated adult male, something Petunia had never before received. When she invited him and his wife over for coffee by way of a peace offering, he hastily made excuses and avoided her assiduously thereafter.

_Mirabile dictu_, his lawn recovered the next morning.

It was Mrs. Figg who warned Petunia that the neighbours had forbidden their children to play with Dudley or Harry, and advised them to avoid the boys at all costs. Petunia was saddened by the news, but scarcely surprised. "How did they do the spells?" she asked Mrs. Figg, referring to _l'affaire lawn. _

"Three guesses," Mrs. Figg said.

"Pompey, in triplicate," Petunia sighed.

When taxed with it, Pompey didn't even bother with a denial. "If you won't defend yourself," he said coldly, "then your children will have to learn to do it for you."

This allegation stung Petunia more than anything Pompey had said to her yet. Vernon's insinuations and manipulations throughout their marriage had been nearly all fabrications or exaggerations, and though she found them endlessly annoying, she knew that they weren't true. Pompey, on the other hand, had painfully accurate aim. It was like playing smashball with your own id.

The psychiatrists had warned Petunia that most institutionalized mental patients were released within five years or so; but Vernon's condition became increasingly worse, and finally it became obvious that he was, as the saying went, a lifer. His long term insurance yielded some income for her and for Dudley; so did Lily's share of their parents' estate, still in trust for Harry. Petunia was still unable to access the Mayhew estate, as the precondition was a fully magical heir. She did wonder if James Potter had left any money. After all, Lily had told her that he was wealthy. There had been no mention of it in the one letter she had received from Dumbledore, though. She hated asking the wizards for anything, because they then might be tempted to interfere, but her need was becoming acute.

Petunia had not finished her education, and she had no work experience. Vernon had said that _his_ wife did not need to work. Well, she was no longer his wife, and now she did. She tried a day care at Number 4 for awhile, but the boys' magical outbursts put paid to that. She needed a job, but who was safe enough to babysit the boys? Though Pompey was absolutely reliable with regard to their safety, she was becoming increasingly concerned about his attitude. She didn't want the boys to pick up his disdainful attitudes towards Muggles, for one thing; and her, for another.

And so the answer was Mrs. Figg, who agreed to babysit a few nights a week while Petunia waitressed in a local restaurant. The boys didn't mind Mrs. Figg, but they missed Petunia, and evidently were concerned about her working at night. Their solution to this problem turned up on Petunia's doorstep late one sunny Monday afternoon.

Petunia opened the door to find a very sprucely dressed small man on her doorstep, holding a bouquet of flowers.

"Petunia Dursley?" he said brightly.

"Yes?" Petunia asked. Was this a delivery? Or yet another process server? She knew they often pretended to be deliverymen through unfortunate personal experience.

"I'm Andrew Tolliver, your date," he said.

"My—what?" squeaked Petunia.

It turned out the boys had decided Petunia must be lonely and besides which, the state of the family finances were such that they felt a steady breadwinner was becoming an absolute necessity. By way of solving these problems in one fell swoop, they had signed her up for a dating service. Petunia later had the dubious privilege of the reading the application form, and noticed that the boys had felt no obligation to be honest about it. According to her nearest and dearest, she was single, with no children, a good job, an unencumbered home, and five less years. "We had to make sure he would come to meet you, Tante," said Harry frankly. Petunia was both thoroughly amused by the boys' hard-eyed assessment of her charms, or the lack of them; and rather hurt by it. That was silly; she was aware of just how silly, and yet it persisted.

Mr. Tolliver had expected to take Petunia out for dinner; Petunia had refused, saying she had no babysitter for the children. Well, that was her excuse, anyway; though she didn't even bother to call Mrs. Figg. She did feel that the poor man ought to be given a meal, even if it was bangers and mash with two critical and vocal nine-year-olds. So he sat miserably at the dining room table, while the boys grilled him mercilessly about his annual income—"Gross or net?" Petunia heard Dudley ask—his job, his long-term prospects, his mental and physical health, his criminal record (did he have one?), and whether or not he had ever hired an exorcist. And oh, yes, did he believe in magic?

It was a humiliating evening; it was even more humiliating when she learned that the boys had done chores for one of the local stores in order to afford the fee. After the luckless Mr. Tolliver had slunk away, Petunia sat on the lounge sofa in floods of unexplainable tears, a boy on either side of her, both trying desperately to soothe her. "Dud, go get Mrs. Figg," Harry cried at last, and Dudley had run to do so. Mrs. Figg, the ever-practical, had given Petunia a draft of something Petunia had thought was brandy, but proved to be a wizard-style tranquillizer of some sort.

When she next became aware of things, she was lying on the couch and Mrs. Figg was knitting in the chair beside her. The boys were nowhere to be seen. "I sent them to bed," Mrs. Figg explained.

"And they went?" Petunia said.

"Oh, yes, they went," Mrs. Figg said. "Quite willingly." She looked searchingly at Petunia. "They didn't mean any harm, you know."

"Oh, I know. I don't know why I'm so upset."

"Stress, I should imagine."

Stress, indeed. She suddenly found herself telling Mrs. Figg the whole story, or as much of it as she was willing to tell anyone. She didn't want to; she had been reticent with Mrs. Figg once she had learned that her neighbour was spying for Dumbledore, a man she did not trust. But Petunia felt she had to talk to another adult—one that understood about magic-or burst. So her whole history came pouring out; she described the strange symptoms, the surprising physical strength under stress, the weird things happening around the house. Ordinarily, she might have assumed that the boys were responsible, except that it had started before either of them arrived on the scene.

Mrs. Figg stared at her. "And this has been going on how long?" she asked.

"Since before Dudley was born."

"When did you first notice it?"

Petunia tried to remember. "The first time was the night of my parents' deaths, I'm pretty sure. That's when I knocked out Lily's fiancée and his friends. I don't know what came over me. I'd never hit anybody before that, or since. Well, let me amend that-I've hit Vernon when he's pushed me, and spent literally hours trying to provoke me. He immediately phoned the police when I did, yelling that he'd been assaulted. Damn him." She felt angry about it all over again. But she hadn't, alas, knocked him out, or come even close to it. Nor had she left a mark. Whatever it was, it was completely unpredictable.

"And after that, when was the next one?"

"After Vernon and I were married, maybe a month or two."

Mrs. Figg looked thoughtful. "I was told that you were a squib, but this doesn't sound like it."

"I didn't have enough magic to attend Hogwarts, Dumbledore said so."

"There are some squibs that start showing signs of magic later in life," said Mrs. Figg. "It's called magical surge, but it's pretty rare. But you must be very careful who you tell about it. Magical surge causes magic that is nearly always uncontrollable, and usually causes the squib to go—"

"—mad," Petunia finished for her.


	9. Chapter 9: WANDS 'R' US

CHAPTER NINE: WANDS "R" US

Mrs. Figg hesitated. "I'm afraid so. I've heard a lot of theories about it. My parents were very unhappy when I proved to be a squib, of course, and when I was a child they consulted a number of experts to see if they could do anything about it. At one time, when I was a child, there was a very unprincipled wizard who used to promise parents of squibs that he could induce the magical surge, in exchange for a handsome fee, of course. His theory was that a traumatic experience would trigger it. This worked quite often, but then it became obvious that the magical surge was causing madness in most of the people who experienced it. The unfortunate parents ended up with lighter pockets and children locked up for the rest of their lives in the St. Mungo's madhouse wards. They were now magical, however, so the Ministry courts deemed that the contracts had been honoured. He didn't even do any time in Azkaban for it, if you can imagine it. Luckily for me, my parents were cautious."

There was a dead silence.

"How much time do I have, then?" Petunia asked numbly.

"That's the odd part," Mrs. Figg said. "It usually works quickly—within a month to a year or so. You've had these symptoms for approximately ten years from what you tell me. That's not a magical surge; it's a magical stutter."

"What would cause that?"

"I really don't know, but I rather think that there's someone we could ask about it."

That someone was Pompey. He scowled when Mrs. Figg began to question him about the period after his former mistress' death. What had happened?

"Who told you to come to Number 4, Pompey?" Mrs. Figg prodded him.

"Miss Lily did," Pompey finally admitted.

"What did she say to you? Can you remember exactly?"

"She said to stay out of the way of that fat Muggle, and not to let Mistress know I was here, either. But I was to help her as much as possible. She wanted me to tell her what was going on here as well."

"And what did you tell her?" This from Petunia, in a gritty voice.

Pompey gave her a defiant look. "I told her that that fat, stupid Muggle was bullying and threatening a _witch_. And that the _witch_ was letting him do it."

Petunia opened her mouth to defend herself and then closed it. It was as succinct and accurate description of the situation as you could wish for, she rather thought. So Lily had known the truth after all. Damn.

"I am _not_ a witch," she said finally.

"Not _yet_," Pompey said.

"That's just nonsense, Pompey."

"No, it's not. I heard Miss Lily say you'd be a witch."

"Do you know why you didn't stay in Miss Lily's household?" Mrs. Figg asked him, giving Petunia a reproving look. _She's right; we are not here to start a debate._

"Miss Lily said that the estate went to the eldest magical descendant. They went to a lawyer's office to cast a spell to determine who that was, and the spell said it was Miss Petunia. The lawyer said Miss Lily could challenge it, but she didn't want to; she seemed surprised, and then happy, because she thought Miss Petunia would be delighted. Then she was concerned. She said that she knew that fat Muggle would make a scene about it. And that the magical surge would be a problem."

"Do you remember anything else?" Mrs. Figg asked him.

"Miss Lily said I was to look after Miss Petunia. She said that she would have a difficult time because of once the magic was triggered, it would often overtake her. She told me that she would cast a spell to slow it down; it would give Miss Petunia a chance, she said."

"Interesting," said Mrs. Figg, "What was that spell, I wonder?" She gave Petunia a speculative glance. "I rather think you have enough magic now to need some way to channel it so that it can be more controlled. Children have outbursts of accidental magic—both your boys do pretty frequently, don't they?" Petunia nodded. "And even adult witches and wizards do at times, when they are under great stress or in danger."

Finally, after considering the problem carefully, Mrs. Figg decided that Petunia should try to buy a wand.

"A wand?" Petunia exclaimed. "Don't wizards buy wands at age eleven?"

"Not all of them. Wands are expensive, and if there's an available wand in the family, they'll use that. That's not terribly desirable, though; the wand chooses the wizard, and if there's a mismatch, the user's magic can be affected. And sometimes wands are broken, or damaged. So there's really nothing surprising about an adult purchasing one."

"How much do they cost?" Petunia asked, in a dubious tone. She did not want to spend any of her small capital on a wand that might prove useless to her.

"They're not cheap, but you are allowed to test them first, luckily. Only working wands are sold."

Petunia had never used a wand. Magic to her was wild outbursts of flying furniture or odd physical occurrences, which happened without warning. But she knew wizards used them, and had even seen Lily do it, once or twice. And Snape, too, at least once.

Wands were purchased at Ollivander's in Diagon Alley, Petunia recalled. Mrs. Figg told Petunia that she must go by herself, but warned her not to look the wand-maker in the eye: "But don't make it too obvious; stare at the tip of his nose. Close enough—and he'll just wonder if he's got a spot on it. A very good thing to remember with Dumbledore, too." The older woman also lent Petunia a robe to wear, which was unfortunately much too short and roomy. Petunia belted it with an old sash left over from Hallowe'en, dug out a long summer skirt to wear under it, and prayed that she didn't appear too Muggle.

So Petunia made her third visit to Diagon Alley. She would have enjoyed browsing in the curious-looking shops, if she hadn't been so nervous about her upcoming purchase. Thus Ollivander's was first on her itinerary.

Ollivander looked a thousand years old, and his large, pale, slightly poached eyes gave Petunia the creeps. His shop—and his stock—looked even older. It was not the back to school period, so the shop was deserted.

"Can I help you?" he asked, giving her a narrow look, which Petunia did not quite meet.

"I need a wand."  
"Oh, a replacement?"

"Yes—I was using my mother's sycamore wand and it combusted." Mrs. Figg had advised her on this story.

"Well, they will do it, if bored," Ollivander said, giving her another appraising look, but Petunia would not be drawn. "Your name?"

"Angharad Ifans." _Well, it was her name. After a fashion._

"Ah, Welsh. We'll start with the rowan ones, then."

What followed was an exercise in humiliation. Most of the wands lay lifeless in Petunia's hand. She had been sure she wouldn't be able to animate a wand, and now the prediction was coming true. She wasn't the least bit happy that she had been accurate. Ollivander appeared perplexed.

Feeling hopeless, she listlessly picked up yet another wand, and was surprised to feel a burst of energy from it, and a series of firework-like pinwheels lit up the room.

"Let's see that," Ollivander said, relieved. "Ah, Blackthorn, with a unicorn hair core. Hmmm. That's rather odd."

"Odd?"

"That's a warrior's wand. Given that your mother's wand combusted—" he didn't finish the thought. _Mrs. Figg told me that sycamore wands often combusted from boredom. And he's adding that and my new wand up and thinking that I don't compute._

"Should we keep trying, then?" Petunia asked, rather timidly, looking as non-warrior-like as possible in Mrs. Figg's cast-offs, and concentrating on the end of Ollivander's nose as if it contained the secret of life.

"No, it's chosen you. There must be a reason-twelve inches, too! You're a tall woman, but still-!"

Petunia painstakingly paid out the price of the wand, and wished to God Ollivander wouldn't stare at her so intently. He packed it in a pasteboard box for her and she whisked herself out of the establishment, still refusing to meet his eyes. For some reason, the encounter thoroughly unnerved her, and the other shops no longer looked intriguing. She headed for home.

Petunia had particularly admired Lily's willow wand, a delicate and refined one, which she had once examined closely and with envy when its owner was out of their parents' house. Her own was nothing like it. It was large, knobby, and graceless, and she displayed it to Mrs. Figg with an air of apology.

Mrs. Figg blinked.

"That's quite a wand," she said, reaching out a hand out to examine it.

"Not very elegant," Petunia said ruefully.

"Elegance doesn't really matter; what matters is power. This wand looks powerful to me."

It may have been a powerful wand, but Petunia had no notion on how to use it. Mrs. Figg was no help at all on that front, never having had a wand of her own. Pompey had magic, but it was not wand-based, and thus he was no help either.

So they resorted to books, purchased at Flourish and Blotts, or borrowed by Mrs. Figg from the magical library just down the street from Gringotts. They were of limited usefulness because they often assumed a base level of magical knowledge that Petunia simply did not possess. Mrs. Figg could fill in some of the gaps, but not all of them. The most tantalizing thing was that Petunia could very occasionally get her magic to work. It was to her the most extraordinary feeling—the magic flowed properly and the wand would do her bidding. And then it would sputter out, like a faulty radio. She felt utterly frustrated. It would be better if it didn't work at all, or so she thought; it was difficult to fall just short.

Petunia also borrowed books for the boys. She didn't want them to attend Hogwarts completely ignorant of wizarding culture. She knew from Lily that they would have difficulties in any case, and knowledge was power. The three of them plowed through "The History of Magic" by Bathilda Bagshot, to start. 'Plow' was the operative word. It was often very heavy going, but certain things pleased the boys—the bloodthirstiness of the Goblin Wars was a favorite with them. They also enjoyed "The Tales of Beedle the Bard", especially Babbitty Rabbitty; though the story in that book that spoke to Petunia was "The Fountain of Fair Fortune." She read and reread it. The boys said it was soppy, and demanded something else. "Why do you like _that_ story?" asked Dudley, perplexed. Petunia smiled. "It reminds me that there are certain things I need to drop in the water," she said. Dudley looked abashed. "Do you mean us, Mum?"

Petunia laughed. She was doing more of that these days. "Not you, sweetie," she said, hugging him. "Never you. Not Harry, either. I was speaking metaphorically."

The Brothers Grimm exchanged glances. They didn't roll their eyes, but Petunia knew that they wanted to. "She means the whale," whispered Harry to Dudley. _Not really, Harry. I mean the old me._


	10. Chapter 10: BEDKNOBS & BROOMSTICKS

CHAPTER TEN: BEDKNOBS AND BROOMSTICKS

Petunia wondered later if getting a wand at that juncture was an entirely good idea; while it didn't work for her, the boys were utterly fascinated with it. She thought that Dudley might, on his own, have left the wand alone; it was also remotely possible that Harry would have on _his_ own. But together, they were as curious as Mrs. Figg's cats, and twice as inventive. After coming upon Dudley about to cast a spell with it (under the tutelage of Pompey), with Harry warming up behind him, Petunia was driven to carrying the wand with her at all times.

But as the boys' departure for Hogwarts loomed on the horizon, Petunia fretted that the boys would know no one there, and asked Mrs. Figg if perhaps she should put them in a wizarding preparatory school. It would make it easier for them to adjust if they had wizarding friends before they went to Hogwarts, wouldn't it? Would it be expensive? Mrs. Figg looked dubious. "I'd be careful about that," she said. "Might be children from Death Eater families attending, which would make it dangerous. Perhaps I could arrange something else."

The 'something else' was a visit, for tea, from a wizarding boy the same age as Dudley and Harry, and his grandmother; pure-bloods, as Mrs. Figg put it, but with no allegiance to the Death Eaters. Pompey was thrilled with this development, and cleaned the house from top to bottom. He also chivvied the boys into pressed and spotless clothes—Petunia wondered how he managed it—and suggested—well, let's be honest, he demanded-that she wear a skirt, or better yet, a dress. Petunia's wardrobe had suffered from her shortage of money, and her best outfit was ten years old and hung listlessly on her thin frame. Pompey sniffed and snapped his fingers; the dress miraculously shrank to fit her. But he could do nothing about its datedness; Petunia hoped that their visitors wouldn't notice.

Once she caught sight of Augusta Longbottom, though, she relaxed. She was an elderly woman dressed in a coat trimmed with a rather moth-eaten fur collar and a hat with—no joke-a _vulture_ on it. Petunia's oversized shoulder pads could scarcely compete with _that_. The _ensemble _proved to be misleading, however. Augusta seemed to be a proud, straight-laced woman who looked down her nose at Petunia and at the undoubted Muggleness of Petunia's house and of Petunia herself. And, alas, Petunia's children. Petunia belatedly remembered Lily's comments on pure-bloods, and wondered if this had been a good idea. She sighed inwardly.

By contrast, Augusta's small grandson was rather an attractive child, Petunia thought. He was round-faced and shy, and seemed rather alarmed by the outspokenness of Dudley and Harry, especially the latter, who was demonstrating—damn him to Hell—the conversational tendencies that he had inherited from his maternal grandmother, Marigold Evans.

"What's that on your hat?" he asked Mrs. Longbottom, as they sat around the dining room table. The tea itself was impeccable, thanks to Pompey, if rather sparse. "Is it a buzzard?"

She grimaced. "No," she said shortly. "A vulture." The words '_you ill-bred little boy_' weren't uttered, but they hung in the air.

"So is it for Hallowe'en, then?" Harry persisted. Mrs. Longbottom's eyes flashed.

"Harry!" cried Petunia. "Be quiet!"

"I'm not being rude, Tante! I'm just asking."

"You _are_ being rude, and do please stop asking," Petunia said repressively, wishing Mrs. Longbottom had a sense of humour. Vain wish, obviously. Her guest was looking increasingly thunderous.

Augusta's small grandson, on the other hand, seemed thoroughly entertained, though quite startled at the manner in which Petunia joked with her boys, and how they responded to it. Alas, his grandmother felt it necessary to detail to the whole table how far short he fell of his father's magical standards. In front of the child himself! Petunia was horrified by this, and tried to choke the older woman off: "Lots of time for that, isn't there?"

"We fear he might be a squib," Augusta said dourly.

"I'm a squib," Petunia said flatly, "And it's not so bad a fate." _Did she just say that? And contradict her entire life story as told by her to her? Oh, irony._

The tea over, Petunia suggested that the boys take Neville—that was the grandson's name-into the garden to play. Augusta was very obviously alarmed by this notion, and the bad effects of her descendant associating with these two Muggle ruffians; she invented another appointment for which they definitely could not be late. Petunia's eyes narrowed, especially when she noticed Neville's very evident disappointment.

"Just fifteen minutes," she insisted—insisted? _What was she doing, anyway?_ Harry and Dudley pulled Neville thought the door with yelps of triumph, and they played in the garden for an hour, while Augusta and Petunia made stilted small talk in the dining room. There was blood in Augusta's eye, however, and Petunia was not at all surprised to receive no reciprocal invitation from the Longbottoms.

"Neville's grandmother is a right tartar, innit she?" Harry said, after they left.

Petunia winced. Perhaps Augusta's opinion of Harry's manners had some justice. She'd have to work on that.

"Why does she say Neville's a squib?" Dudley asked.

"Apparently he doesn't have magical outbursts, like you and Harry do," Petunia explained.

Dudley and Harry looked puzzled. "Yes he does," Dudley says. "They're like mine."

A pureblood witch and she didn't know the difference? Petunia was amazed. And also rather depressed at the outcome of her first foray into wizarding social life.

Mrs. Figg, however, was not yet discouraged. Next she arranged a visit from a different wizarding family. The Weasleys boasted four children and they were escorted by their mother. This time, Petunia had primed the boys to behave themselves, and had Number 4 as clean as she and Pompey could make it.

Molly Weasley looked as eccentric as Augusta Longbottom, but a lot less prosperous. She had tough-looking twelve year old twin boys, a skinny younger boy the same age as Dudley and Harry, and a girl a year younger than that. And she told Petunia that she had three older boys as well! Petunia marvelled at her stamina. Molly's boys made loud comments about how nice and spacious Number 4 was. Petunia had not been able to spend any money on Number 4 for some time, so that it looked distinctly shabby; but then, she didn't have a family of nine, either. She wondered what The Burrow (that was the name of the Weasley's house, according to Molly) must be like. Molly's boys were boisterous, but her little girl was very shy, hiding her face in her napkin to conceal brilliant blushes. She had bright red plaits, and reminded Petunia painfully of Lily. Petunia did not envy Molly her boys, she had some of those herself, but the little girl—oh yes, she did envy her that.

This time, after the children went out to play in the garden, Petunia did not hear any whoops, yells, or whistles, which she knew by experience meant trouble. When she looked out, she discovered that the twins had brought their brooms along with them and that Dudley and Harry were riding them. Well, sort of, if you could call holding on by your hands while you dangled from a speeding broom _riding_. Molly pushed Petunia aside and charged into the garden. She had the brooms on the ground in seconds and her denunciation of the twins was incredibly loud and very lengthy. Dudley and Harry were astonished by this display-later Petunia noted gratefully that this meant they must be forgetting some of the nasty details of life with Vernon—and then Harry said, _sotto voce_, "Tante, are all witches crazy?" To Petunia's dismay, Molly's cat-like ears caught this, and she gathered up her children and marched them to the door. The Weasley boys were grinning and giving Harry the thumbs up as they went by. Their little sister, by contrast, looked like she was about to expire with embarrassment. _I have a feeling that this encounter won't elicit a reciprocal invitation either._ Said Molly to Harry as she went past: "And the moral of this story is: never ride any strange brooms."

Her boys felt that this was good advice, and as a result started begging for a broomstick of their own. "Just one," Harry said, "so that we can get some practice in before Hogwarts and not look like total fools when we get there." Petunia could see that Dudley was equally anxious about it, though he said little. But the purchase of the wand had exhausted the cache of spare cash she had, never very great. The boys suggested that she buy it on credit, against the day that she could claim the Mayhew estate, but Petunia was utterly opposed to more debt; she was up against an overly large mortgage as it was. _And I'm not sure I'll ever be able to claim the estate, though your faith that I will is touching._

Pompey listened to the debate with air of rising exasperation and then disappeared one day. The children were very upset. They feared he had left for good, as he often threatened to do. Petunia was less upset, but she understood that the children's circle was so small that they mourned any subtraction from it. So even she was relieved to see Pompey when he returned, even if he was dragging a dusty broomstick behind him.

The broom had belonged, no surprise, to Cressida Mayhew, retrieved by Pompey from the Manor. Was that stealing, if the estate didn't actually belong to her? Given that Pompey was capable of sulking for days altogether over the issue, and that the boys had already seen the broom, and were in a state of wild excitement as a result, Petunia decided that it wasn't. The broom was, after all, in sad shape. It looked very old, and very dated, according to Mrs. Figg. Still, Petunia was very reluctant to let the boys, especially Harry, who never could be trusted to be cautious, anywhere near it. Pompey was adamant, however: "They have to learn. And better they learn at home."

Well, Petunia thought that he might be right about that; and when she learned that it was common to teach wizarding children to ride brooms at an early age, she reluctantly agreed to it. Pompey was able to place a training spell on the broom, which meant that it couldn't rise more than two feet off the ground. Petunia refused to consent to more. The boys were delighted with it, and competed with each other to ride it. And to Petunia's surprise, Mrs. Figg also suggested that she learn as well.

"You're joking," Petunia said to her.

"No, I'm not, Petunia. You really should. In emergencies, it might be vital."

"Do _you_ know how?" Petunia asked pointedly.

"I do know how; I just can't do it by myself. Not enough magic."

"What makes you think I have enough, then?"

"Well, why not try and find out?"

_Why not, indeed. Because I don't want to go splat on the pavement, that's why. So messy._

The boys, however, picked up the thread—how could she be a proper witch, they cried, if she didn't ride a broomstick? They wanted to be able to tell all the other prats at Hogwarts that _their _mother could fly with the best of them! Won't you try, Mum? Please? You need to show us the right way, Tante! We need a proper example! _No, I don't have to show you how to go splat, Harry. You can achieve that state without my demonstration. It's not in my parenting manual, I do assure you._

Pompey folded his arms and glared at her. Petunia knew was he was thinking; and what's more, she knew what he was about to say. So Petunia found herself astride a broomstick, wavering between feeling like an utter fool, and being scared to death. Pompey had cast what he described as 'notice-me-not' spells to make sure that the neighbours saw nothing, and then snapped his fingers. The broom seemed to zoom into the sky, the terrified Petunia clinging to it for dear life. The boys cheered; from what seemed like a very long way up, Petunia saw her children waving to her frantically, and Mrs. FIgg berating a smirking Pompey. _That miserable, nasty little-_

Then Petunia started to fly.

Flying was marvelous. It was freedom, and every stupendous moment you ever had, rolled into one. Petunia loved flying. It wasn't until she had been in the sky for some time that she realized something else. If she had enough magic to fly, the she really must be a witch. A witch in a bad haircut, a tatty old turtleneck jumper, ancient faded jeans, and worn trainers, but a witch nonetheless.


	11. Chapter 11: THE ST MUNGO'S TANGO

It's listed as a Harry & Snape story because: (1) it was originally written as a challenge fic for Potions & Snitches, for which those characters are a prerequisite; (2) Nobody reads Petunia stories (deep sigh); and (3) Snape will appear eventually, when the boys go to Hogwarts.

It turns out P & S doesn't take stories until they are absolutely sure that Snape _does_ appear (you have to post elsewhere until he does) so here we are. As to whether he and Petunia are the 'romance' in this story, you will have to keep reading to find out.

Thank you for the very kind reviews, everyone, (wow, Iwantyourmusic and icymistwhite, those are reviews that made me want to do pirouettes on the rooftops!—and on the question of quantity, reviews of quality win out, I'd say) and hi, Reina; I promise you that this story will NOT be abandoned (ie. I've already written the ending)

CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE ST. MUNGO'S TANGO

Despite her ability to fly, Petunia despaired because her wand magic showed no sign of improving. So Mrs. Figg suggested to her that she seek help for that problem at St. Mungo's, the wizarding hospital in London. Petunia was most reluctant even to consider this; she feared that they would report her situation to Dumbledore and yes, there would be—yet again-the threat of losing custody of her children. After all, a magical surge, even an unnaturally slow one, was supposed to cause madness. "If I had any fear of that," Mrs. Figg said bluntly, "_I'd_ have reported you to Dumbledore. And I haven't."

Petunia believed her. And when Mrs. Figg assured her that wizard healers were as bound by confidentiality as Muggle ones, she agreed to try it. Pompey, with bad grace, escorted them both to the hospital, since they really required someone who could reliably do magic to help them with the trip. The boys came too, since Petunia could not scare up—_le mot juste_, in this instance, and in her neighbourhood-a babysitter.

At the intake interview, Mrs. Figg's help proved invaluable. Petunia found the surroundings frightening; suddenly she wondered if she had been tricked and was going to be committed for good, just like Vernon. It was not, as she later admitted, one of her more shining moments. She thus compounded the problem by having a first-class anxiety attack. She was promptly ushered into an examining room and made to lie down, while Mrs. Figg demanded tea, the boys fussed, and Pompey complained loudly about the slow service. But eventually a team of Mind-healers were ushered into the room.

The three Mind-healers were dressed in grey. Grey robes, grey eyes, grey or greying hair, grey faces. There was an older rather desiccated-looking woman who introduced herself as Marcella Whiteoak; a tall, thin middle-aged man named Hector Connolly; a shorter, stockier man called Titus McWhirter. They politely suggested that Petunia's entourage wait could outside. All four of them seemed inclined to argue this point, but Petunia requested that they do as they were asked. She wanted some privacy, so that she could talk frankly to the healers; and reluctantly, Mrs. Figg shepherded Pompey and the boys out of the room.

Petunia decided caution was in order, and introduced herself as Angharad Ifans. The group looked at Petunia with what seemed to her as indifference.

"I understand that you are a squib," the woman said, in her dry voice.

"Not exactly," said Petunia.

"Not exactly? What does 'not exactly' mean?"

"It means I'm having outbursts of magic. They're getting much more frequent, especially lately. I'm told I need some help with it."

All three of them were suddenly on their feet, leaning forward over the desk. Petunia felt crowded. "How frequent?"

"It used to be about once a week, but recently it's become daily."

Connolly said: "You've got a wand." His tone was hard to read.

"I went to Ollivander's and got one, but it hasn't helped much. The magical outbursts aren't stopping, and the wand doesn't help much to control them. It only works sporadically."

"You went to Ollivander's and got-close the door, Titus," Whiteoak said.

McWhirter got up and closed the door, and Whiteoak sat down and began to interrogate Petunia in minute detail. Any witches or wizards in the family? Yes, one sister, one great-aunt, that's all she knew about. Sister's name? Buddug Ifans. Great-aunt's name? Cressida Mayhew. Both dead. Children? Two. Twin boys. _Well, sort of_. You saw them just now. Both magical. Husband? In the Surrey Mental Institute for the Criminally Insane at Brookwood in Woking with schizophrenia. Schizophrenia? He keeps telling everyone that our children are possessed by demons, and hiring exorcists. Muggles take a dim view of such things. No, no magic there. _In more ways than one._ Were your parents squibs? Don't really know. Both dead. No obvious symptoms of it, though. _Not that I'd know an obvious symptom if it hit me in the eye with a flummery pudding._

The team then started Petunia on a comprehensive series of tests. They were not the sort of tests she'd ever had in a Muggle hospital, and she often found them confusing, and sometimes downright frightening. She noticed that each member of the team had a different role: Whiteoak had the 'bad cop' role, and was dry, hard-driving and brusque; while the men divided the 'good cop' trope; Connelly was cheerful and amusing; McWhirter was calm and had a deep Scottish brogue that Petunia found particularly soothing. But Petunia also sensed what she thought was a certain impatience under it all; the cheer and the calm was perhaps assumed, and she remained wary of them.

The team asked her to sign a waiver allowing them to test both the boys as well, which puzzled Petunia; why would that be necessary? Then it occurred to her that they wanted to see if Muggle-born Dudley's magic was normal, and she agreed, if reluctantly.

So Marcella Whiteoak went off to test the boys, leaving the men to continue with Petunia's assessment. _They have already determined that I respond better to the technique of the good cop rather than that of the bad. And how right they are._ After another two hours, Connelly said firmly, "That's enough for you for today, I think. We'll continue tomorrow."

"How long is this going to take?" Petunia asked plaintively. She felt utterly exhausted.

Connelly smiled reassuringly, and patted her hand. "We can already tell what the basic problem is. You're going to need some therapy, but we'll find a way to help you."

'Therapy' was a word that Petunia didn't want to hear. It sounded too much like her endless and fruitless visits to Muggle doctors. At that moment, Whiteoak slid back into the room and fortunately distracted her.

"How did the testing go?" Petunia said anxiously, sitting up. "Do the boys have enough?"

"Enough _what?_" murmured McWhirter.

_He's mocking me_. "Enough magic! Enough to attend Hogwarts, and not be left in limbo, like me!" she snapped, glaring at him. "And I don't appreciate you making fun of me. It's not my fault I'm a squib."

McWhirter looked rather abashed; Whiteoak raised her brows. "Well, as to that," she said coolly, "the testing on you is giving a rather different result, but we need to complete it and evaluate it carefully before giving you a definite prognosis. With regard to the boys, though, they certainly have enough magic for Hogwarts, both of them."

Petunia, despite her fatigue, beamed. She had been afraid that the gypsy exorcism may actually been effective, or at least affected the strength of their magic. "That's good."

Whiteoak gave her a wintry smile. "Come back tomorrow. This is going to take some time."

And that was an understatement. It took the team ten full days to complete the testing. By that time, Petunia had learned to travel to St. Mungo's on her own, and generally left her entourage at home. It was hard to keep the children quiet during the long waiting periods, for one thing. And for another, Pompey and Mrs. Figg, who had plenty of opinions and no inhibitions about expressing them, appeared to be getting on the healers' nerves.

The healers were patient with her, though, Petunia had to admit. And patience was required, because the effects of the magical stutter on her kept them baffled for some time. As Marcella (by this time, Petunia and the team had progressed to first names, including her own real one) told her, in theory it shouldn't be a problem. Magical children received their magic in increments, and it didn't seem to affect them in the manner it had her. Of course, her first known magical outburst had been very late, and had been caused by trauma. They had looked at case studies of the rare squibs who had experienced the magical surge without the usual side effects (which was a polite way of saying that they hadn't gone berserk), but these didn't seem to help. The surge was quick; Petunia's magical stutter was not, and they eventually decided that its slowness was the probable source of the problem.

In the end, the team decided to call in a specialist, who Marcella pompously called a Magical Manipulator, and Hector had derisively dubbed, under his breath, the Magical Chiropractor. Marcella, overhearing this, scowled; Titus hid a grin. Oddly enough, it turned out to be a good description. The Manipulator diagnosed a maladjusted magical system, caused, he said, by the stutter and the advanced age of the subject at the magical onset. His diagnosis made Petunia feel ancient, but the physical adjustments he made most definitely helped, much to her surprise. Her use of her wand became more reliable, and her magic gradually became more sustained. Marcella warned her that improvement would take time and practice, which Petunia had already concluded. But she was determined to pass the magical proficiency test, and claim the Mayhew estate if nothing else. Well, that had been her ambition in the beginning. As her skill with magic increased, she began to enjoy it for its own sake. It had a seduction all its own. And, very gradually, she became more ambitious in its use. _Oh, if my family s could see me now, how they'd laugh. And I'd laugh, too. I miss them. I miss Lily, my little sister. I understand now why you loved magic so much, Ginge. I love it, too. And I'd love to talk it over with you, if only you were still alive._

The team, once the magical problem was dealt with, persuaded Petunia to undergo a mind-healing regimen before she undertook the magical proficiency test. That had taken some powerful persuasion, as Petunia's experience with the medical profession in the past had been almost entirely negative. But they pointed out to her that the magical stutter had apparently had affected her emotionally, and that she needed to stabilize herself for the sake of her children. They didn't overtly mention the additional effects of her miserably unhappy marriage, its noisy breakdown, the stress of the lawsuits, and the slaughter of most of her family. Petunia was grateful for that. _Tactfulness is always appreciated, particularly by me. I haven't very had much of it in the last ten years, from anyone._


	12. Chapter 12: PRACTICAL MAGIC

Many thanks to those who took the time to post a review; it's much appreciated.

CHAPTER TWELVE: PRACTICAL MAGIC

The day came when the team decided Petunia could try for her magical proficiency test. Petunia was both elated and frightened, and she managed to work herself into a terrific state of nerves. The testers agreed to administer the test at St. Mungo's, and when they arrived, they proved to be two unthreatening bureaucrats from the Ministry, who seemed to be rather taken aback by Petunia's age and accent. (Marcella had told her that the proficiency test was usually administered to foreigners and/or children.) But with Marcella's eye on them, the testers allowed Petunia to proceed. It started badly, Petunia's nerves betraying her; Titus intervened and recommended that they start over. The testers protested that that was against the rules, as but the team was obviously going to argue it, and as they absolutely thought Marcella was scary, they reluctantly agreed.

Petunia was embarrassed by the false start, but she really could _not_ afford to fail; so she pulled herself together. She proceeded shakily, but gradually it improved; the last spells in particular. The testers shook her hand politely, told her she had passed, and instructed her that she would receive a certificate sometime in the immediate future. Marcella cleared her throat sharply, and the senior tester told Petunia that she would receive the certificate in a week, peering fearfully at the senior healer to see if this was acceptable. It wasn't. Marcella shot him a glare, and he hastily conjured a certificate then and there, and they signed it. Petunia stifled a laugh, especially as she could see both Hector and Titus doing the same. She was both delighted and relieved, and embraced her coaches. Finally, _finally_, she was progressing!

The test passed, Petunia presented herself at _Flywheel, Lightbody and Flywheel _to claim her inheritance. Nervous, she decided a bad cop might be necessary, and having seen her in action, she asked Marcella to accompany her; she was rather surprised when Marcella agreed to do so. It was a treat, as she later described the scene to Mrs. Figg, to see Marcella intimidate the daylights out of the whole law firm, the young team of Gringotts goblins, and the representative of Ministry's Trustee Department, all sent to wind up the estate. Petunia got her inheritance, many years after the fact, but she got it, and rather more of it than she would have had received if Marcella had not come along.

While Petunia had been getting her act together, Gringotts had been administering the Mayhew estate under the direction of the Ministry Trustee Department. They'd both awarded themselves higher fees for their ongoing services than Marcella deemed either reasonable or appropriate. The law firm also presented their bill for payment; that didn't please Marcella, either. By the time she was finished with them, the goblins and the Ministry had disgorged a good half of their booty, and a chastened Mr. Flywheel had reduced his bill by half as well. Petunia was both grateful and astonished. She also found Marcella's damn-the-torpedoes attitude highly instructive. As a result, she donated the returned money to St. Mungo's as a reimbursement for her treatment. After all, she couldn't have claimed her inheritance without them.

That produced another wintry smile from Marcella. Then, lest she be considered soft, she cornered the Gringotts representatives, and began interrogating them about the Mayhew vault at the Bank, as well as the Potter vault and estate. By the time she was through with them, they were shakily agreeing to escort Marcella and Petunia to the Bank to look into it.

When they arrived at Gringotts, the young goblins, reeling from their encounter with the bad cop, ran for the cover of the heavy guns. A trio of venerable goblins thus took over, but if they imagined that they were going to overawe Marcella, they were doomed to disappointment. Before the day was out, Marcella had the information from the Potter estate in her hands. James Potter did have a will, as it turned out, in which he left everything to Lily; Lily's will, in turn, left everything to James. If neither of them survived, the estate went to Harry. The alternate guardian for their son appointed by both the wills was one Sirius Black. Even Marcella seemed taken aback by that.

"He's in Azkaban," she said to Petunia, who surprised herself by understanding the reference. She'd heard Snape mention it to Lily, once upon a time. The wizarding prison. "What for?" Petunia asked.

"Multiple murder," Marcella said, curtly. Well, that seemed to be that. _Clearly not guardian material._

Lily's will, however, took the precaution—was it second sight?- to appoint a second alternate guardian for Harry, one Petunia Angrahad Dursley, nee Evans. Petunia breathed a sigh of relief.

"Who's been administering the estate since James Potter's death?" Marcella asked, forward momentum resumed.

"We have," the goblins replied. "By default. Neither Sirius Black nor Petunia Dursley applied for probate."

"This is Mrs. Dursley," Marcella said, indicating Petunia. "And you know where Mr. Black is." The elderly goblins inspected Petunia dourly, and demanded documentary identification; she provided it. Then they wanted proof that she had custody of Harry. Luckily Petunia never left home without the court order giving her custody of Dudley and Harry; it was her most precious possession, and resided in a zipped pocket of her purse. The goblins looked increasingly sour as they studied it. They seemed aware that Marcella was about to demand an accounting of their stewardship of the estate, as she indeed did shortly thereafter. It was getting late, but Marcella was not to be gainsaid. "If we don't do it now," she whispered to Petunia, "and give them enough time, and they'll have covered their tracks. You'll never know what's been going on."

They were there to after midnight. Petunia was exhausted, as were—as far as she could tell—the goblins; but Marcella was as fresh as a daisy and full of energy. In the course of the day, they had inspected both the Mayhew and the Potter vaults. When Petunia saw the contents, she felt both elated and angry. There was plenty of money in both, as well as things that could be sold if necessary. Eventually Marcella gathered up the estate documents and announced cheerfully that she was taking them to a wizarding accounting firm for an audit. If the goblins' complexions weren't already green, they'd have turned white. They pleaded with Marcella to leave the documents, and offered to waive any fees they'd charged the estate during Harry's minority, in the past and yes, in the future, too; and by the way, there was another small vault which they had forgotten to mention, with quite a handsome sum in it. Would Marcella like to see it? Marcella definitely would. They would divide the contents of it between the Mayhew and Potter vaults, would that satisfy her? Marcella, after a show of reluctance, decided that it would, yes, if an accounting of the contents of all three vaults was provided to her before she left. It was placed before her in record time.

"They were trying to shave you, of course," Marcella commented to Petunia as they walked away from Gringotts down Diagon Alley in the murk of early morning. "You might not have received as much as you are exactly entitled to, but I'll wager that it's close enough. Threats of a forensic audit does work wonders."

Petunia thanked her and asked if she could make another contribution to St. Mungo's by way of showing her appreciation. Yes, she could.

"I enjoyed that!" exclaimed Marcella, her usually grey face pink-cheeked with enthusiasm, as they approached the pub. _I enjoyed that, too, Marcella, but you didn't scare just the goblins._

At Petunia's therapy session the next day, the good cops wanted to hear every detail of how it had played out. "So—are the goblins still standing?" Hector asked. "Or did Hurricane Marcella mow the poor blighters down like ninepins?"

Petunia laughed in spite of herself. "Too bad you missed it," she said. "She steamrollered right over them. I think they're still scraping themselves off the floor. I had no idea Marcella could be so-overwhelming."

"I suspect that she was trying to model more assertive behaviour for you, Petunia, even if she got a little carried away," Titus observed. Petunia was surprised.

"Do you think I need it?"

"Well, you can be assertive—the day we all first met, you put me in my place, and quite rightly, too-but usually, yes, you do need it."

Petunia didn't even remember what he was referring to; that had been a terrifying day, and she didn't really remember the details. She supposed that she must have looked deflated, because Hector joked, "Well, don't pay too much attention to Marcella's example, Petunia. Your children will thank you."

Titus, to her surprise, scowled at him. "I'm trying to make a point, here," he said.

"That's odd," said Petunia. "Vernon thought that I was _too _assertive. He was always complaining about it."

"Well, he would, wouldn't he?" Titus said. "The point is, no matter how you behaved, Vernon would have complained. He wanted you to feel defensive, because that made you back off, and left him with the last word."

"It wasn't just Vernon," Petunia said, stung. "All the boyfriends I had before him did agree on that point."

"And why do you suppose that was?"

"I was too assertive?"

"You were picking the wrong sort of men? Or, perhaps I should amend that, the wrong sort of men were picking you."

"Each and every time?"

"It has been known to happen, Petunia. Vulnerable people do tend to send out powerful signals of vulnerability. And vulnerability does tend to attract the sort of people who will exploit the person who has it. Perhaps you weren't too assertive _per se_; you were too assertive for someone who was as vulnerable as you were then."

Petunia sighed. "Before the end, I really, _really_ hated Vernon. But now he's a permanent resident of the local madhouse. I've wondered if he'd married someone else, he'd have had a different fate—maybe a happier one."

Hector said: "The only reason Vernon ended up there instead of you was your magic. Don't feel guilty; he did it to himself. If he'd been married to the biggest saint on the calendar, he'd have behaved exactly the same way. It wasn't anything you did, though he tried to convince you that it was."

"We don't say this to upset you," Titus said gently, noting Petunia's reaction, "but to warn you. You need to be less vulnerable, Petunia, because you don't want to attract another Vernon." Petunia's face fell. "We assume that once the boys go to school, you'll start to date again," he continued. "You told us that you couldn't tell Vernon was trouble before you married him. Most of the people we treat tell us the same thing. They mean what they say, but that's not right. Usually you _can_ tell; but you explain away the incidents that are warnings-he was tired, you provoked him, that sort of thing—because you want to believe it isn't serious and continue the relationship."

"So you're saying it was my fault."

Hector and Titus exchanged glances. They were exasperated with her, she could tell. "It was nobody's fault, except you didn't have enough experience to recognize him for what he was," Hector said. "That's why we're telling you now. Next time you should be on the alert for these things."

_Nice try, blokes, and I appreciate the thought, but I don't need a warning. There will never, ever, ever be a next time. I can't, I won't go through that again. I'm making a promise to myself on that._


	13. Chapter 13: MOONFLEET

Janna: I really liked your reference to 'adamantium'

Moi: Yes, Petunia has a lot more choices now, which will affect Dumbledore's plans more than he imagines.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: MOONFLEET

The next day, Petunia embarked upon a tour of the Mayhew estate's properties, escorted by a goblin from Gringotts (who made Pompey look light-hearted by comparison), Pompey himself, and Mrs. Figg. The London townhouse and the Cornwall vacation house were both still rented out and seemed well enough maintained. The income from the rentals would come in handy, especially with the upcoming expenses attendant upon two boys starting their boarding school careers. Mayhew Manor, on the other hand, had been in a considerable state of decay on the death of Great-Aunt Cressida, and the intervening years had been even harder on it. Petunia could see that a good amount of money—and magic-would have to be spent to get it into even a habitable condition. It had an attached, abandoned farm, given over to brambles, nettles and weeds, with two cottages in reasonable shape, and numerous outbuildings in various stages of dilapidation.

Pompey was delighted at the sight of his old home, and at the sight of four other house elves that lived there (who seemed rather less happy to see him), and wanted to move back in right away. Petunia was less enthused. "I'm not planning to move to Scotland, Pompey," she said, trying to reign in his enthusiasm.

"Why not?" Pompey said. "Look how close it is to Hogwarts!"

Petunia would not say so, but that fact was becoming a major consideration for her. The attempts at socializing the boys with wizards had gone so awry that she growing more and more concerned about their advent at Hogwarts. Dudley might do well enough if he weren't Muggle-born. He was not shy, but he _was_ rather quiet. Harry, though, was another story. He was resilient, yes, but he was also combative, and if there was trouble, he'd be in the centre of it, using knees, fists, feet, and sorry to relate, teeth. Separating them, however, did not appeal to her. She wondered if she should look at Salem, in Boston, just as a possible backup. The money in the Gringotts vaults made it possible; she decided to investigate it. This was one project she took care not mention to Mrs. Figg. Though she believed that Mrs. Figg now had divided loyalties, she would not wager on her remaining silent on _that_ subject.

The settlement of the estate meant that when Petunia took the boys to shop for their first year at Hogwarts, she didn't, for once, have to watch her budget. After all those years of scrimping, this was bliss indeed, especially to see the pleasure that two much-loved children took in their new (brand new! for once!) possessions. She rather thought that she enjoyed it more than they did.

At Eeylops Owl Emporium, Petunia happily allowed the boys to choose the familiar that they wanted. Harry chose a great Snowy Owl, whom he named Hedwig; Dudley selected a Sooty Owl, with great black blinking eyes in rosettes of grey and white feathers. They debated on his name for some time, eventually settling on Daffyd. "I think Sooty Owls are from Australia," Petunia pointed out. "Perhaps a Welsh name isn't appropriate."

"It's just as appropriate as Hedwig is for an owl from Canada," Dudley said, defending his ground stoutly, to Petunia's secret pleasure. Though she suspected that they would call the owl Daffy, which Petunia considered a suitable name for a duck, not an owl, she said nothing more.

"Well, point taken. Are you sure that you don't want a cat?"

"Certain sure. Mrs. Figg's cats are enough to put anyone off for life."

No argument there. Rather to Petunia's surprise, the owls appeared to tolerate each other rather well, and there were no bird battles. Or so far, at least. Though she wondered how Hedwig and Daffy would deal with Mrs. Figg's cats.

They attended next at Ollivander's, and Petunia again ignored his intent stare. _None of your damn business, you creepy old gaffer._ The boys chose their wands, or rather, their wands chose them-holly and unicorn hair for Harry; and cherrywood and unicorn hair for Dudley. Both wands looked very handsome to Petunia, and the boys were delighted to have ones of their own at last. To her fury, the occasion was ruined by Ollivander's deliberate reference to Voldemort. Petunia whisked the boys out of the shop in double quick time, and sought an immediate distraction.

Quality Quidditch Supplies provided it. The boys had pleaded with her for a new broom. Petunia pointed out that first years could not have their own brooms at Hogwarts, but the boys were ready for her on that point. They noted that her great-aunt's old broom was now close to disintegration; and they needed something to practice on for the rest of the summer and in the hols; then she would only have to buy one more for their second year. Petunia sighed, but she remembered the years in which she was able to buy the boys very little, and how correspondingly little they had complained about it. She agreed to look.

The shop had a large display window on Diagon Alley, filled with brooms, but once inside, it was revealed to be a hollow square, with a large courtyard in the middle of it. The courtyard was used to try out brooms, and several people were test riding new ones there. The boys were transfixed by this sight. Eventually a sales clerk became free, and showed them several brooms. The boys debated the virtues of the different ones, occasionally becoming somewhat heated. Petunia stopped listening when she realized that she needed a broom of her own as well. She became focused on the salesman's spiel—a suitable ride for a lady!-–a speedy broom for travel! –-a safe broom for traffic!-until suddenly she noticed that the boys had drifted away into the courtyard.

They had stopped talking, always a giveaway. Petunia craned her neck to see what they were looking at.

Another sales clerk was showing a broom to an elegant-looking wizard and a boy, obviously his son. It was the most distinctive one Petunia had ever seen, not that her experience with them was very large; but the handle was a smoothly shaped pale wood, inlaid with what looked to be intricately worked ebony runes. The tail was fine red-gold bracken.

"Very old," said the sales clerk.

"How much?" the wizard asked, his thin fingers skimming the smooth surface of the handle. He had long silvery hair and such an air of smug entitlement that Petunia longed to kick him.

The sales clerk laughed. "It's not for sale," he said. "It's literally priceless. The owner claims it's a genuine Moonfleet, centuries old. Besides, you wouldn't want to own it. It can't be ridden."

"Who says?" the wizard said.

"Well," the salesman said, "No one's ridden it yet. We've let people try, in fact it's become quite an attraction; everyone wants to give it a go; but they hardly last a minute."

"Show me."

The sales clerk went pale. "I can't do that," he said. "We keep it as a come on for our customers, but I repeat, it's not for sale."

"I didn't say I wanted to buy it; I said I wanted to see you ride it."

"Mr. Malfoy-"

"I was thinking of equipping the Slytherin Quidditch Team at Hogwarts with brooms-all of them-out of my own pocket. That would be considerable commission for you, wouldn't it?"

The sales clerk stared at him for what seemed like a full minute, and then summoned an underling, and instructed him to ride the Moonfleet. The wizard frowned. "I said you, not him."

On the sidelines, Petunia heard herself say: "Don't let him bully you."

The wizard looked up at her and frowned. The sales clerk flushed, gritted his teeth and flung himself on the broom. The broom flung him off in short order.

The wizard laughed. Petunia hated him. "Let's see you do it, then, if you think it's so funny," she said sharply.

He looked at her disdainfully, and didn't deign to answer. "Big talker," muttered Harry. Dudley snorted with laughter.

The wizard loftily ignored this; but his son's face flushed. He ran for the broom and scrambled on to it. The broom came alive and began to quiver; then it ascended into the sky and started to roll. The boy might have survived one roll, and even two, but not three. He lost his hold on the broom and fell to the ground. Petunia thought there must be a general cushioning charm on the surface of the courtyard, because he seemed unhurt, if shaken.

The wizard, his eyes blazing, jerked the boy to his feet. "Did I tell you to do that?" he hissed, shaking him some more.

"He only did it because you're gutless," Harry said loudly.

The wizard straightened up, eyes glittering. His lip curled as he inspected Petunia and the boys. "Mudbloods everywhere, it would seem."

His son, glaring at Harry, said: "I don't see _you _riding it, you grimy little dirtblood."

Petunia grabbed for Harry's collar, and Dudley dived for his left sleeve; but he dodged them, and they both just missed. He ran to the broom and straddled it. The broom shot into the air at a sharp angle. Harry was clinging to it tightly. The broom started to roll, as it had with the Malfoy boy; but Harry would not be shaken off. He had taken the precaution of hooking his legs around it, and locking his ankles. It rolled, it dodged, it flipped. It tried to scrape Harry off along a wall. Petunia screamed.

Now they had an audience. Petunia got out her wand to cast a spell, but the salesman grabbed her arm. "Not here!" he entreated her, "You might hit someone!"

Petunia and Dudley were forced to watch while the broom attempted to dislodge Harry, and Harry attempted to stay the course. The broom seemed almost mad, and went faster and faster, until it became just a blur in the sky. Finally, it stopped short, hovering just above the ground. Harry rolled off of it, bounced lightly off the ground, and was quite thoroughly sick to his stomach.

The sales clerks helped Petunia clean Harry up and were quite apologetic until it became obvious that the broom had been just as affected by the wild ride as Harry was. It hovered where he left it, but when Petunia and the boys started to leave the premises, it followed them.

Petunia, noticing this, said: "Hold that thing, will you?" The sale clerks tried. The broom would not be held. It evaded them, and flew over to hover near Harry.

"He's broken it!" one of the clerks said, "I'll get the manager!"

The manager was at first sympathetic, but after trying every broomstick spell in the book, they were no further toward a solution. The broom was broken, the clerks kept wailing; Petunia didn't know what they meant until one of them deigned to explain that it now would only work for Harry.

"Well, that's progress, isn't it?" Petunia said. "Before that, it wouldn't work for anyone."

But no, breaking a Moonfleet was a heinous sin. It was now useless to them as a store attraction! Petunia, losing patience, told them that she didn't care. She wanted to go home, now, sans broom.

"You can't leave until you've paid for it," the manager announced rather belligerently.

He was a large man, and he reminded Petunia suddenly and unpleasantly of Vernon. Perhaps that was why she had her wand aimed at his face within seconds.

"Paid for it?" she hissed at him. "We are paying for nothing! We're going home; if that demented broom follows us, well then, that's _your_ problem. I'm damned if I'll give you so much as a knut for it. I didn't order it and I don't want it. I _will _instruct my lawyer to sue you down to your last whiskbroom for keeping such a dangerous magical object on your premises, and actually encouraging children to ride on it! The Ministry will be hearing from me as well!"

With that broadside, she scooped up Harry, grabbed Dudley's hand, and swept out of the shop. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the smitten broom bringing up the hindmost. Rather to her surprise, they let her go, broom and all.

The Moonfleet followed them all the way home, and when Petunia refused to let it into the house, took up residence on the back patio. It waited patiently until Harry appeared, and then followed him everywhere it possibly could. The boys were rather amused, but Petunia was exasperated. She wanted rid of it, but how? Neither Pompey nor Mrs. Figg could suggest a solution—they'd never seen such a thing before. A trip to the magical lending library yielded no clues. Finally Petunia was driven to ask the St. Mungo's team for help.

They examined the broom with some interest. "I rather think it's sentient," Hector said, "On a low level, but still. These were made in Dorset several centuries ago, but I had never heard that any survived. I certainly agree with you on one point-this shouldn't have used as the store was using it. It's a marvelous thing, really."

"Well," Petunia said, "it can be really marvellous somewhere else. I trip over it every time I go out the back door, and it follows Harry about like a weird-looking dog."

"Has he ridden it since he broke it in?"

"I've forbidden him to touch it again. The original experience was so scary that he actually has obeyed me-well, I think he has. With Harry you can never tell. But here's the rub: he's going to Hogwarts in a bit, how is a broomstick familiar going to fit in?"

Hector shook his head. "I don't imagine it is. My advice is: ask Dumbledore. Otherwise, look at it this way, Harry's and Dudley's owls may well have a permanent ambulatory perch."

And indeed, that's what Harry and Dudley usually used it for.


	14. Chapter 14: SORTED

Oh, lord. Despite Moi's brilliant save, higito is correct: the core of Harry's wand is a flat-out mistake on my part. This is what I get for relying on my memory instead of checking it out. I think I will follow Moi's suggestion on the wand core, and hope to hell I don't end up rewriting this story...!

And in this chapter, Snape makes his appearance. Warning: he's far less OOC in this story than Petunia, Dudley, and Harry are.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: SORTED

The train station was crowded with people, several of whom stared at Hedwig and Daffy, not to mention their hovering perch. "Must be an advertising thing," Petunia heard a passerby mutter. Mrs. Figg shepherded Petunia, Dudley and Harry, and the owls towards a wall between Platforms Nine and Ten.

Petunia looked at the wall dubiously. It looked so very-solid. Very permanent; surely this was the wrong place? But Mrs. Figg was absolutely certain. _Did she ever go to Hogwarts, I wonder? Probably not. But it would be tactless to ask._

Mrs. Figg urged Dudley to take a run at the wall. Dudley tried, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do it, sheering off at the last minute. Speeding up didn't help. Closing his eyes didn't help. Dudley seemed to sense when he was going to hit the wall full force without even looking. He looked at Petunia despairingly and said: "There's got to be some other way."

Harry sighed and said: "Let me try."

Harry went full tilt at the wall and disappeared through it. "Magic," Petunia said to Dudley. "You won't actually hit it, Dudley."

Dudley looked unhappy. "Why didn't Harry have a problem?" he asked

_Oh, hell, here comes the sibling rivalry. I hope that I can nip this in the bud_. "Because you've taken different lessons from my example, sweetheart. To Harry, I've been a negative one. 'Watch Tante and don't do what she does' is what he lives by. Which is why he can charge full speed at a brick wall. In your case, you've taken me as a positive example. 'Try to find some way around it' is your mantra. I'll tell you something, Dudley: neither of you are right. But neither of you are wrong, either. Sometimes you need to rush the wall, and sometimes you need to outflank it. The trick is knowing which is which. I'm still learning that."

Dudley looked up at her. "I get it."

Petunia kissed him. "That's my good boy. Look after Harry—his tendency to rush the wall every time is going to get him into trouble one day, and probably sooner than later. Sometimes outflanking is the best thing. I love you." Dudley smiled. And then he turned and rushed the wall.

Petunia watched him disappear through it. _Where did that come from, I wonder? Well, now I have to put my money where my mouth is._

She glanced at Mrs. Figg, who was looking at her with some interest. "I'll wait here," the older woman said.

Petunia nodded and forced herself to walk into the brick barrier. She steeled herself to hit it—it was a natural reaction, she supposed. But then she was through, and into a crowd of wizards alongside an old fashioned steam engine. She saw Harry and Dudley, both looking excited, chatting animatedly to the Weasley twins. She collected them, and saw them stowed safely in a compartment. She then gave them some spending money, and waved them goodbye from the platform.

Going home to an empty house was a depressing experience. Number Four bore the evidence of a flurry of last-minute packing, and because Petunia had not had time to renovate it yet, it looked tatty and worn. _Like me. Oh, this is going to be very difficult. _Unable to face being alone on the first night, she invited Mrs. Figg over for dinner.

Though she had never been sorted herself, Petunia felt tolerably certain that she knew where her boys would end up. As she said complacently to Mrs. Figg, Dudley, hardworking and loyal, was a natural Hufflepuff; Harry, lively and impulsive, was an obvious Gryffindor, even setting aside his parents' affiliation to that house. It was therefore a considerable shock to her to learn, via a letter from Dudley, delivered by an apologetic-looking Daffy the next morning, that both boys had been sorted into Slytherin.

Slytherin! With Greasy as their Head of House! And wasn't it a hot-bed of those pureblood-obsessed Nazi wizards? What would be the fate of a Muggleborn like Dudley and a half-blood with Harry's history in such a place? Petunia decided that she was not going to tolerate it for an instant. She demanded, through Mrs. Figg, an interview with Dumbledore. Rather to her surprise, he agreed.

The floo system made Petunia sick, and she was so nervous by the time the interview took place that she insisted that Mrs. Figg accompany her. Dumbledore also took the precaution of a second: her old childhood nemesis, Severus Snape, sat scowling in an armchair in the Headmaster's office. As greasy as ever, Petunia thought, and even less charming.

"I invited Severus, as head of the boys' house, to sit in," Dumbledore said.

"Uninvite him, then," Petunia snapped.

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"No, you're not. _I'm _afraid that if you don't resort the boys into a house that's not Slytherin, I'll decide to withdraw them from Hogwarts altogether and place them in Beauxbatons, or maybe Salem."

"You won't do that, Mrs. Dursley," Dumbledore said calmly.

"Oh, won't I?" She threw brochures down from both schools. "Why not? Beauxbatons might be difficult, because the lessons are in French; but Salem's are in English, and the school looks very promising to me. Apparently the Americans aren't so intolerant of Muggle-borns, either."

"And what about the wards?"

"Well, as to that, I have only your word for their importance. And you're not always right, are you, Headmaster?"

"I can hardly disagree with that, but I must insist on your children staying here."

"You're thinking of oblivating me, I imagine," Petunia said. "You can stop thinking about it; I told the Mind-Healing team at St. Mungo's where I was going and why. If you don't want yourself denounced in front of the Wizengamot by Marcella Whiteoak for illegal use of magic, control yourself."

Petunia could tell that she had hit a nerve, though Dumbledore suppressed any surprise he felt quickly.

Snape was staring at her. "Charming as ever, I see," he sneered.

"I could reply in kind, Snape."

"You can have your wretched brats resorted with my goodwill, Petunia. I don't want either of them in my house."

"Then we agree for once. I don't want them in your house either."

"And what does that husband of yours think?"

"He's in a very expensive bin, has been for years, thank you for asking. And we're divorced, hallelujah amen."

"I should expect any husband of yours would end up in a loony bin," Snape said, obviously meaning to wound.

The days when Petunia could be made to feel defensive by remarks like that were long gone, however. She gave Snape an icy smile, and said, "Oh, he got what he deserved. Consider yourself warned." She then drew her wand and placed it on her lap. Snape raised his eyebrows. "Are you proposing a duel?" he sneered.

"No," Petunia said, coolly casting the anti-oblivation spell Marcella, Hector and Titus had taught her. The two men obviously recognized it for what it was. Dumbledore was expressionless; Snape angry.

Petunia was trembling with nerves inside, but she was determined not to show it, nor would she allow herself to be bullied. "I want to know how Dudley ended up in Slytherin," she said, steadily. "Isn't that impossible for a Muggleborn wizard?"

Dumbledore said: "Well, it is rare, but not unprecedented. Slytherin is the house of cunning and ambition, and sometimes Muggleborns have those qualities...and frankly, we don't know if your family is a Squib line or not. If it is, and there is certainly some evidence of it, then technically he isn't Muggleborn."

"And Harry. Isn't it dangerous for him to be in Slytherin with all those junior Death Eaters?"

"Well, as to that, it is certainly not desirable, I must agree. But Severus will protect him, won't you, Severus?" Snape nodded curtly.

"Oh, _that_ relieves my mind!" cried Petunia. "Death Eaters killed my mother, my father, and my sister, and you imagine that I'll believe that my children are safe in Slytherin? I'm supposed to be content that Snape will protect them? And who'll protect them from _him_? He's a Death Eater himself, isn't he? He was tried before the Wizengamot for it, Hector Connelly told me he was. In a word—no. I want them resorted."

"They can't be resorted," Dumbledore said, "once the Sorting Hat makes up its mind, it doesn't change it. But perhaps we should discover how it made up its mind."

That involved summoning the boys to his office. Their eyes widened when they saw Petunia and Mrs. Figg. And Petunia's eyes widened when she noted that Dudley had a cut lip, and Harry an impressive shiner of a black eye. She hugged both of them, and didn't give a damn for embarrassing them in front of Snape, who predictably smirked. Let him smirk, she didn't care. The boys did look rather discomfited, however. "What happened?" Petunia demanded, gesturing toward the lip and eye. Dudley looked at Harry and shrugged.

"First things first, perhaps," Dumbledore said. "Let's see what the boys have to say about their sorting."

Dudley went first. What had the Hat said as it sorted him? He was vague: "I dunno—it started gassing on about a lot of stuff I didn't really understand. Something about me being royalty, I think. I thought that was just like the stuff you say Granda always said, Mum, about being descended from Llewellyn ap Gruffydd."

"The last Welsh Prince of Wales?"

"Yeah-him. So I didn't really pay too much attention."

"Did it mention any other houses to you, Mr. Dursley?" Dumbledore asked him.

"No, just Slytherin. I asked for Gryffyndor, 'cause I thought Harry would go there. But it just sorted me the way _it_ wanted."

When his turn came, Harry admitted that the Hat _had _offered him a choice.

"It said I could have Gryffyndor or Slytherin. It wanted Slytherin, though, it kept mentioning kings or something like that and said that Slytherin would be suitable. But I chose Slytherin because Dud was there. Didn't want him to have to try to manage without me, or anything." He grinned at his cousin.

"And do you like Slytherin so far?" Petunia asked. The men in the room looked contemptuous, as if _liking _anything was irrelevant. Petunia ignored them.

"Nope," said Harry.

"He really seems to hate us," said Dudley, indicating Snape. "Especially Harry."

"It is hardly my fault that you and your cousin are miserably spoilt show-offs, Mr. Dursley," Snape said sharply.

"He went for Harry from the very first minute," said Dudley, ignoring Snape. "Harry didn't do anything to deserve it, either. Not anything. We'd have understood it if he had."

Petunia raised her brows and looked at Snape. "Are you taking out your own school days on an eleven-year-old?" she asked in a scathing tone. Snape stood up suddenly, as if he had decided to leave.

"Sit down, Severus," Dumbledore said mildly.

"I'm not going to be insulted-!"

"There's no question of insults. Now, Mr. Dursley, how are you managing with your Slytherin classmates?"

Dudley shrugged. "We've had to fight them off—only three or four times so far, though."

Petunia looked appalled.

"What were they trying to do?"

Dudley shrugged. "They called me a Mudblood."

Dumbledore looked rather worn suddenly. "What did you do?" Petunia asked Dudley, not sure that she wanted to hear the answer.

"I didn't do anything," said Dudley patiently. "Harry hit the bloke who called me it. The first one, I mean. Also the second one; and the third."

"Harry!"

Harry shrugged. "Not to worry, Tante! They hit me right back!"

Dudley laughed. "Well, coz, if they called you a half-blood, I'd have gone right ahead and let them do it."

Harry gave him a sideways glance. "It's not the same thing."

In Petunia's opinion, Harry was right. "How many boys are in the same dormitory with you?" she asked.

The boys exchanged glances. "Five, not including us," Dudley said.

"And have they all tried to hit you?"

"They leave it to the Slytherin upper years, mostly. Most of them come from Death Eater families. They have it in for me, because I'm Muggle-born, and for Harry, because he's the 'Boy Who Lived.'

"Say again?" Petunia said.

"Harry is quite famous in the wizarding world, Mrs. Dursley, as the only known survivor of the killing curse," Dumbledore said. Snape looked disgusted.

"Strange reason for fame," muttered Petunia. "If you won't resort the boys, I'm withdrawing them from this school. I am _not_ joking, nor am I bluffing."

"Well, then; what's your price?" Dumbledore said coolly. If he thought to discompose her, he was disappointed.

"I own a house in Hogsmead—it belonged to my great-aunt—and I need some assistance to get it habitable, and to set up proper wards. Then I want to have the boys visit me there at least once per week during the school term, just to make sure nothing is getting out of hand," Petunia gave Snape a pointed look, "I also need some tutoring myself so I can use magic more easily. Right now it's still pretty difficult. I'm willing to pay for it."

"Do you expect _me_ to tutor you in Potions?" Snape asked.

"Well, why not?" Petunia said. "I said that I'd pay, didn't I? I'd be surprised if you couldn't use the money." Snape showed his yellowing teeth in a grimace, and Petunia wondered, not for the first time, if there were any wizard dentists. The juxtaposition made her want to giggle.

"Well," she said to Dumbledore, "do we have a deal?"


	15. Chapter 15: HAT TRICK

Many thanks for the reviews, many of which I'm finding increasingly interesting reading.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: HAT TRICK

[For those of you who don't follow ice hockey, a hat trick is three goals by one player in one game.]

Over Snape's protests, and rather to Petunia's surprise, Dumbledore agreed to all her conditions. He even accompanied her to Mayhew Manor the very next day to deal with the wards.

But the deal didn't last very long. Petunia had remained at the Manor to oversee its renovation, and as a precaution she had asked Pompey to establish connections with the Hogwarts house elves so that she would have a reliable source of information on the children. Males being what they were, she was not at all sure she'd receive pukka gen from the boys themselves. Thus she learned from the indignant Pompey that both the boys were in the Hogwarts infirmary just after they arrived there. Petunia and Pompey were both at the infirmary doors in record time.

Petunia quite liked Madame Pomfrey, the Hogwarts healer, but having had experience of the St. Mungo's variety, she was not sure that her talents were on the highest level. However, it didn't take Doctor Who to make a diagnosis: Harry's right eye was now sporting a shiner of its own, while another one had superimposed itself over the original black eye on his left one. Dudley's chin had a nasty bruise on it, and Madame Pomfrey was trying to staunch the blood flowing from his mouth.

She waved Petunia to the side, and Petunia sat, obediently enough, and silent, while the healer did her work. The boys gave her apprehensive looks. When Pomfrey was finished, Petunia thanked her and said curtly to the boys: "Get your things."

The tone of her voice told them it was not a matter for debate, and they did as she said, without argument. Their luggage retrieved, they walked out of the gates of the school and down the road to Hogsmeade.

Mayhew Manor wasn't in the village proper, but a little way outside it. It was a stone house that had once been a considerable property, but sustained neglect had rendered it a sorry sight. The boys looked rather taken aback as they inspected it. "Not to worry," Petunia said, with a faint smile. "The roof works."

"Does anything else?" Harry asked.

"You underrate Pompey," Petunia answered. And indeed, she was right. She had lived in the Manor only a week or so, but Pompey, unrestrained by a younger and much less traditional Mistress, had chivvied the other house elves into an orgy of cleaning and repair. Most of the first floor was stripped of furniture and they were working on the restoration. There were two rooms that could pass for bedrooms and were habitable, if not exactly comfortable; one for Petunia, and one for the boys. "This is not your final bedroom," Petunia told them, "but it will do for now."

"Are we going back to Hogwarts?" Dudley asked.

"I expect so," Petunia said. "If I get my way. We'll just have to see how stubborn wizards are in general, and Dumbledore is in particular." She patted the boys' shoulders gently, avoiding their wounds.

Harry said, "You didn't ask what happened."

"I know what happened. And I know what's going to happen."

"What's that, Mum?"

"We'll have visitors here, tomorrow. Some I've invited, and some I haven't."

She was quite right. Dumbledore was on her doorstep by mid-morning, accompanied by Snape, scowling as usual. "Oh, good," Petunia greeted them with a smile as false as her words. "You're here. A bit late, but do come in." Petunia knew from the boys that Snape had a spare at this time, so she had planned accordingly. She led the men into the house. Professors McGonagall and Sprout awaited them in the stripped-down drawing room. There were a group of mismatched chairs around a wobbly table. Petunia made no apology for the state of the room. At least they were on her ground this time.

Dumbledore looked thoughtful. _He was expecting hysterics. I'm way beyond that, Headmaster. You're not the only one with an agenda._

The men sat down, and Petunia asked Pompey to bring tea. Dumbledore was looking at the room, and said: "Still a lot of work to be done."

"I'm game," Petunia said levelly. It was a warning.

"I wasn't expecting Minerva and Pomona to be here, I must say."

"I invited them."

"May I ask why, Mrs. Dursley?"

"You can, of course. I understand from them that you usually have five new first-year students in each house per year."

"The number is not set in stone-it can vary considerably."

"I daresay, but the fact of the matter is that it usually doesn't vary that much, isn't that so? Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout tell me that they are both one male student short each this year, while Slytherin has no less than seven. Before their sorting, I expected the boys to go to Hufflepuff and Gryffindor respectively. Since those houses are both short a student, I can only suppose that the Sorting Hat made a mistake."

"They can't be resorted-"

"I'm not proposing to resort them, since you are opposed to it. I suggest Slytherin House loan them to Hufflepuff and Gryffindor Houses respectively. Permanently, I need hardly say. This is in the interest of them surviving their first year at Hogwarts. Yesterday I discovered them in the infirmary. Dudley had been punched in the jaw and his mouth was bleeding; Harry had managed the not inconsiderable feat of _three_ black eyes."

There was silence in the room. Petunia continued: "I know Professor Snape would not be opposed, he's already said so, and Professors McGonagall and Sprout tell me that they aren't, either. So tell me why this can't be arranged?"

_My God, the great Dumbledore's going to pout. I don't believe it._

"There were times in the past when the Hat's arrangements have been ignored; but not of late years," he said, his lower lip not quite protruding, but getting close to it.

"A change is as good as a rest," Petunia said, trying hard not to sound flippant.

"Really, Mrs. Dursley, I must insist-"

"Your choice, Headmaster. If you don't agree, my alternative is moving the boys to another school."

The Headmaster hesitated. "I would have to ask the Hat for its permission." Dumbledore said.

"Ask the Hat-you're joking!"

"It's a powerful magical object, and we can't ignore it," Dumbledore said.

And as Petunia stared at him, he cried: "Accio Hat!"

And the Hat appeared, apparently through one of the windows, which had opened to admit it. Dumbledore placed it gently on the wobbly table and contemplated it for some time. "Well, you wanted to ask it—so ask," Petunia said, feeling impatient.

"I had forgotten that the Hat only really speaks to people personally once, when they're sorted," Dumbledore said. "And we've all been sorted, of course; that is, except for you."

Petunia frowned. "I'm not putting that _thing_ on my head."

"Afraid, Tuney?" Snape sneered.

"It's Mrs. Dursley to you, Greasy," she snapped back. Snape always had an unwholesome effect on her temper.

Professor McGonagall said, before Snape could retaliate, "Now, there's no need for anyone to fight. I think it's a good idea. And since you've never been sorted, Mrs. Dursley, aren't you curious to find out where the Hat would have put you?"

She was, Petunia had to admit. She was damn curious. She hated _being_ curious. Scowling, she took the Hat and slowly placed it on her head.

It was a man's hat evidently, and far too large for her. It slipped forward and obscured her eyes.

_Hello...It's been awhile since I sorted an adult, _said a voice in her ear. _I only look like an adult_, Petunia responded, _but it's quite deceptive_. The Hat chuckled. _I want to know what happened with my boys, _Petunia said in her mind. _Why did you sort them into Slytherin? _The Hat hesitated_. Something just came over me, but you are right, those two sortings went awry. I'm not sure exactly why. Something was supposed be there that wasn't; and something was not supposed to be there that was. _Petunia nodded, the Hat falling further over her face. _Were they supposed to go to Gryffindor and Hufflepuff? _she asked. _They could have gone there_, the Hat hedged. _I'm not asking you to resort them_, Petunia said. _Just allow a loan from Slytherin to the other two houses. Please. _ The Hat said, _It's very unusual, I rarely change my mind_. Petunia said: _But it's your mind, isn't it? You can change it if you want. And at this rate, the boys will never survive Slytherin._ The Hat said: _It's a pity. They are both potentially great wizards, and Slytherin would help them to get there; but very well, if you're sure—_

And shouted: "Dudley Vernon Dursley is hereby lent from Slytherin House to Hufflepuff House! Harry James Potter is hereby lent from Slytherin House to Gryffindor House!" There was a long pause and then it shouted: "GRYFFINDOR!"


	16. Chapter 16: A MAGICAL EDUCATION

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: A MAGICAL EDUCATION

Petunia's reaction to her sorting was mixed. On one hand, she was delighted that the Hat had accepted her compromise in the face of the Headmasters's objections. On the other, her own sorting seemed to be a surprise to everyone, including herself. She had not expected Gryffindor. Hufflepuff, possibly. Slytherin? Well, at certain times she was displaying an almost feral cunning that she found thoroughly surprising. It was not impossible, she supposed. Yes, she was Muggle-born, but the number of squibs in her immediate family was suspicious. Ravenclaw she had discounted, for though she had been a high achiever in Muggle schools, her unpredictable magic would put paid to that house. Gryffindor, the home of the brave, she had not even considered. She was the least brave person she knew. However, Lily had been a Gryffindor, and house affiliation often ran in families, she was aware.

Professor McGonagall applauded. "Well," she said, smiling, "I am delighted to welcome Mr. Potter to Gryffindor House, and you, too, Mrs. Dursley." _I believe the first, and not the second, but it's very nice of you to say so._

"And Mr. Dursley is most welcome in Hufflepuff," declared Professor Sprout. "I'm sure he will do well with us." _I devoutly hope so._

Petunia immediately retrieved the boys from the orchard, where they were flying the Moonfleet, threading the needle among the gnarled apple trees (Harry having persuaded the broom to accept Dudley as a passenger), and introduced them to their new Heads of House. Their delight at being shut of Snape and the Slytherins (the Potions Professor, to be fair, also looked delighted), was tempered by their separation. "Can't we be together?" Harry asked. "Dud would be a terrific Gryffindor."

"I think you'd make a better Hufflepuff, shorty," Dudley said. Harry shoved him surreptitiously, and he shoved back, the same way. Petunia took them by the shoulders, and they subsided.

"I'm not a miracle worker, gentlemen," Petunia muttered. "If you want to be together, it will have to be in Slytherin. Make your choice."

The Brothers Grimm did their traditional synchronized eye roll, and having made their opinions known, accepted the situation with reasonably good grace. Dumbledore also accepted the situation, with rather less grace, but at least some complaisance. He did say, however, that he now felt that his agreement with Petunia about the boys visiting Petunia every Sundday was no longer necessary.

"Yes it is," said Petunia. "You agreed, and I'm told by Madame Pomfrey that the children at Hogwarts who live in Hogsmeade often visit their relatives on a weekly basis. I expect to see the boys every Sunday for lunch, and if they don't show up, I'll know the reason why."

She then asked the two female Professors if she could pay them to tutor her in their spare time. Both of them seemed rather embarrassed by this request, and it was Professor Sprout who suggested that she volunteer as a teaching assistant, and they would tutor her in exchange. Petunia quickly accepted this good-natured offer before Dumbledore could intervene, as she could tell he wanted to do. He was looking less and less happy as the meal went on.

"I'll have to tell you, _Mrs. Dursley_," said Snape, "that you will have to pay _me_ for my services."

"_Quid pro quo_," said Petunia, _sotto voce_, "I expected nothing less from _you._"

Snape's eyes flashed, but under the eyes of the Headmaster and his fellow Professors, he didn't dare say more.

The group then discussed her educational plans—Snape listened but said little-and decided to restrict the subjects she proposed to study to the main ones: Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, Potions, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, with a short course in wizard healing—in which subject, Petunia was very interested—from Madame Pomfrey, and a supervised reading course in the History of Magic and wizarding culture, devised by Professor McGonagall. "Professor Binns is the nominal teacher of History, but I'm afraid he would be of little help," the Transfiguration Professor noted.

"Because?" Petunia asked.

"Because he's a ghost," Snape said, snarkily.

"Now that's one way to get around the teacher's unions!" Petunia said, amused. Snape scowled.

The 'short course' in basic healing seemed to get longer and longer. Petunia found it difficult at first, but Madame Pomfrey was patient and matter-of-fact, and under the healer's tutelage, she began to show a decent proficiency. When Petunia completed one element, there always seemed to be another that she needed to study.

Of the Professors, Petunia liked Professor Sprout, and her subject, the best. She'd always enjoyed gardening, and had picked up enough information to do well at Herbology. She felt Professor Flitwick was always comparing her unfavourably to Lily, who had been his favourite student; that made Petunia clumsy and Charms stressful. She found Professor McGonagall extremely formidable as a teacher, but in Transfiguration Petunia showed distinct talent, rather to her own surprise. Dumbledore and not Professor Quirrell taught her Defense, to her relief, as she found Quirrell rather creepy-he was a younger man, with a distinctly odd, nervous manner. Dumbledore was, Petunia had to admit, a gifted teacher, and treated her with an even-handed courtesy, no matter what their previous battles. He was, she supposed, a gentleman. She was surprised by how much she enjoyed the lessons. And then there was Potions.

Petunia knew that Snape would attempt to make her miserable. It was, she told Marcella, Hector and Titus, when she reported back to them, a test; if she could survive it, she could survive anything. And indeed, Snape spared her nothing, and she began to understand the boys' complaints about him. He was snide, unreasonably demanding, and just plain unpleasant. But it gave her pleasure to deny him the reaction he so obviously wanted. She prepared meticulously for the lessons, and had experience in devising, amending, and following recipes. That helped. She was forced to complain to Dumbledore about Snape's manner on at least two occasions, but that was rather a better record than she expected. But it was always a struggle, especially as Snape was familiar with her. But if Snape knew her vulnerabilities, the reverse was also true, as Petunia discovered when the subject was Lily.

That day Snape had been in a bad mood from the outset of the lesson, and he grew worse as it progressed; he browbeat Petunia unmercifully. Petunia was sensitive to such treatment because of her experiences with Vernon; finally she lost her temper and hissed: "I see why Lily ditched you!"

Snape whirled around, his wand at the ready.

"Ready to curse me, Death Eater?" Petunia said, sardonically. "Then you're a brute as well as a bully."

"I—am—not—a—bully-!" Snape muttered, glaring at her.

"You're notorious for it throughout this school."

"I took lessons from Potter," Snape said.

"Harry? What are you talking about?"

"Not him, his git of a father."

"I wouldn't know about that-the only time I ever met James, I punched him in the face," Petunia said. "Not that he deserved it, mind you. At least, not at that time."

Snape sneered. "You really expect me to believe that?"

"I don't care what you believe, actually."

Snape gave her a small bottle and said, "Prove it."

Petunia peered perplexedly at the bottle—it was empty—and then at Snape.

"You want me to pee in the bottle?" she asked. "What will that prove, other than I have excellent kidneys?"

Petunia watched Snape—Snape!—laugh. "Explain the joke, why don't you?" she said, feeling ruffled.

She had to admit that the explanation made her laugh, too, and under his direction, she used her wand to extract the memory and placed it in the bottle. Snape produced a large bowl he called a pensieve, poured the memory into it, and viewed it with interest. "I would never have guessed you had it in you," he commented, in an almost friendly—or perhaps marginally less surly was a better description-tone.

"That's when it started," Petunia said, rather forlornly. "I mean the magical surge. I didn't know what it was, then. Apparently, Lily did know. She seems to have cast a spell which slowed it down."

"What spell was that, I wonder?" Snape said, looking at her speculatively. He hesitated, and then himself cast a spell that swirled around her for several minutes and then made odd patterns in the air between Petunia and Snape.

"That one!" he exclaimed, after he studied the patterns. "I would never have guessed that would work—but, yes, I see how she did it—it's quite brilliant."

"It was brilliant, but not much fun," Petunia said. "But I realize she saved my sanity with it." _Oh, and I can't believe I let that git have an opening like that._

And indeed, Snape didn't waste it. "Such as it is," he said, smirking.

"Witty, Professor Snape; I bet you're a riot in the teacher's lounge."

Snape couldn't take a joke, either; particularly at his own expense. He swept out of the classroom in a huff, leaving Petunia to calculate how much she could deduct from his fee because he had truncated the lesson. She would make sure it was more rather than less.

Petunia was pleased to note that the boys were enjoying their wizarding education as much as she was. Even better was the fact that they were making friends in their respective houses. They would appear on Sundays for lunch with Gryffindors in tow such as the Weasley twins, Fred and George; their younger brother, Ron; very occasionally, their elder brother, Percy; Augusta Longbottom's grandson, Neville; Seamus Finnigan or Dean Thomas. Dudley brought Hufflepuffs named Ernie MacMillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley, and two girls, Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones. But the most constant tag-along was a toothy, frizzy-haired Gryffindor girl named Hermoine Granger. Petunia didn't dislike the child, but she did rather remind Petunia of herself at the same age, not a happy memory at the best of times. _Oh, dear, was I this officious? I rather suspect that I was. And I used to wonder why I wasn't popular._ But though they sometimes complained that she was a know-it-all, Dudley and Harry seemed to like her, and she was frequent visitor. And it was Hermoine Granger who was the catalyst for what happened on Hallowe'en.


	17. Chapter 17: The 31st of OCTOBER

Thanks very much for the reviews, everybody. I'm always surprised when anyone new reads this story because I should have thought that the ratio of reviews to number of chapters would probably put them off. Perhaps it's the lousy summary; I can't seem to think of a better one. So I hereby declare anyone who can suggest a more interesting summary for this story (and how hard can it be, given what I've got?) wins cookies.

Katzztar, good point, I'll just say that people who live in Hogsmeade get special privileges.

Moi, I have been updating every second day, but I don't know how long I'm going to be able to keep it up; it's a terrific slog.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: The 31st of OCTOBER

_In which Dudley outflanks the Wall, and Harry and Dudley rush the Wall, all in the same chapter._

The autumn rolled on, punctuated by minor explosions-metaphorical explosions, that is. There were some literal explosions, too, mainly in potions class, but that's another story. The most serious of the first variety was the question of Harry joining the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Petunia was adamantly opposed to this when Minerva McGonagall proposed it to her. She had been taken by her to watch a Quidditch practice, and deemed the so-called sport the wizard version of lacrosse, in that the object of the game seemed to be to injure your opponent; the team with the least walking wounded at the end was held to win. Harry was reckless enough, she said; no to him playing on a House Quidditch team. And wasn't he too young, anyway?

Well, yes he was, but Minerva seemed to have persuaded Dumbledore-she said-that Gryffindor house needed a Seeker, and the rules go hang. (It appeared that Dumbledore was himself a Gryffindor, which Petunia thought only too likely.) The House Cup was a big deal to the staff and the students, it appeared, but not to Petunia. She said no.

Harry took over, and tried pouting, guilt trips and arguing (he was good at all three), but Petunia was unmoved. No.

She heard Dudley mutter to his cousin: "You're not going to get anywhere _that_ way! Watch me and learn." _Oho, here comes the second team. Rushing the wall hasn't worked, so watch out for the flanking maneuver._

Petunia was curious to see how he would approach it, and so she waited. "Mum," said Dudley, "you know how hyper Harry is." Petunia nodded, eyes narrowed. _Where is this going?_

"The teachers are getting annoyed with him, because he won't sit still, or focus, and they're docking points," Dudley said, shaking his head at this unfairness. "You know how _you_ handled that. He needs activity, to keep him occupied, and to take the edge off."

Petunia said cordially, "You know, I think you're right, Dudley! What do you think of this: I'll get Professor Snape to get him to scrub cauldrons after dinner. That should take care of the problem, wouldn't you agree?"

Dudley gave her a lopsided half smile that acknowledged a hit. Then he said: "Well, it might if Snape wouldn't take advantage of the situation, which you know he will. He'd work Harry to death, and then say he deserved it."

_Clever. I begin to see why he was sorted into Slytherin in the first place._

"Well, then what about Mr. Filch?" she inquired innocently.

"He doesn't like Harry, either," Dudley said. "He wouldn't be nice about it." Petunia folded her arms, trying to think of alternatives.

Dudley seemed to realize this, because he hesitated, changed direction, and then tried a new tact: "You know Harry and I don't know that many wizards, Mum, don't you? A place on the House Quidditch team would really help him, and me, for that matter, fit in. It's pretty rare for Muggle-borns to make the teams."

"You're thinking of trying out, too?" Petunia said in surprise.

"No, not this time. I can wait. But I think I will, next year. The Hufflepuff team is pants, of course, or I wouldn't have a chance to make it otherwise. And I'm not Seeker material. But Fred and George Weasley are Beaters, and they say I'm a natural for that." _Oh, my sneaky first-born. You're well aware that I would do nearly anything to get you into sports. I think it would do you a world of good, too. But I'm equal to that ploy, Dudley, never you fear._

"Well, you and Harry can both try out next year," Petunia said brightly. "I'll definitely consider it, if your marks are good this year, and you both behave yourselves. And quite frankly, Dudley, I don't notice that either of you are social outcasts, given the parade of guests you two produce here on Sundays."

Dudley's eyes flashed-and who did _that_ remind her of? Not Vernon, anyway. And wait a minute-! Dudley had her eye colour, blue-grey with a dark blue rim, courtesy of Marigold Evan's paternal grandmother, who had been Irish. The dark-edged iris was called the Celtic rim, her father had always said, adding that he had been attracted by it when he had first met Marigold. But surely, Dudley's eyes had been lighter just a little while ago? They seemed to be going more grey than blue now. She hoped that the colour would not darken all the way to Vernon's hard brown. Hair darkened with age, she knew; did eyes do the same? She would have to ask Poppy Pomfrey about it. And it was true that her own eyes changed colour a little depending on what she wore. Maybe Dudley was the same; he was wearing a grey robe today, she noted.

"Well, Mum," Dudley said, breaking into the tangent her thoughts had gone on. "I guess that you forbidding Harry to play will make Snape's day, because the reason McGonagall wants Harry on the team, is that Gryffindor is a good team without a decent seeker. It's lost the House Cup to Slytherin for the last few seasons, and she wants to win."

"I don't _care_ about the House Cup, Dudley," Petunia said, not mincing matters.

"But Snape does. And so do we. We'd like to beat those pure-bloods who thought we weren't good enough to be in their House." He paused and said: "Mum, please. Let Harry do it this way, and there'll be less fights. We'll keep it on the Quidditch pitch. I promise."

Petunia looked at him. His face was earnest. _He means it. Successful outflank of authority figure; take a bow, Dudley Dursley._

She found herself reluctantly agreeing. Harry gave a great whoop of joy, and embraced her and then Dudley. Dudley gave him a surreptitious thumbs-up. Petunia noticed suddenly when he hugged her, that Harry's eyes seemed to changing colour, too; in his case, they were going lighter. She wondered if magic onset caused it. She _would_ definitely have to ask Poppy, she thought; but then in the onrush of Harry's delight and Dudley's satisfaction, she forgot to do so.

The staff had told Petunia about the traditional Hallowe'en feast, and assured her that since she was a (volunteer) teaching assistant, she was invited. She could not see herself sitting at the staff table, so she declined. It meant she could avoid Snape's snarky comments about jumped-up Muggles who were _not_ teachers; Charity Burbage, the Muggles Studies Professor, who liked to ask her (at great and boring length) about life without magic; and Sybill Trelawney, who allegedly taught Divination, and seemed to her to be well on the way to being a not-so-discreet dipsomaniac. Nor could she see herself sitting with the students at one of their tables, as the single over-age pupil.

So on Hallowe'en afternoon, Petunia was happily working on the Manor, painting what she hoped would be the drawing room a shade improbably described as coffee cream, when Pompey burst into the room and informed her that one of the castle elves had brought the word that there was trouble at Hogwarts. Petunia scrambled off the ladder, and without bothering to change her painting clothes, ran for the school.

It was pandemonium. Children seemed to be running in every direction, and Petunia could not see any of the teachers anywhere. She caught hold of a passing prefect, who was shepherding some younger students along; he told her that the teachers were in the dungeons, looking for a troll that had broken in the castle, and interrupted the feast. He whisked his charges off before she could ask more. Pompey, who had come with her, muttered about poor management, and Petunia could hardly disagree.

"Good God," Petunia said to him, "where are the boys, do you think?"

There was a sudden tremendous thumping, a cracking sound, and the din of shattering mortar. Petunia and Pompey started, and headed down the corridor towards the noise. It was coming from a girl's lavatory. "They couldn't be in there!" Petunia cried. Pompey gave her an exasperated look, and threw open the door.

A wave of stench hit them. The lavatory seemed full of floating dust, and at first Petunia could see nothing; then the scene adjusted itself, and she saw a great lump lying in the middle of the floor-what the _hell_ was it? Then she saw Dudley, his back toward her; Harry, standing beside him, both of them with their wands drawn; and cowering under a broken sink, Hermoine Granger.

"I can't believe you could be so reckless!" Petunia said, furiously, back at the Manor some time later. She had persuaded a shaken Minerva to release the boys to her for the night.

Dudley and Harry tried to look penitent, not too easy when you still have broken mortar and dust falling out of your hair at intervals.

"Professor McGonagall was right. You only survived because of sheer dumb luck! You should have run for a teacher!"

"Hermoine was screaming," Harry said. "Did you expect us to just _leave_ her there?"

"Yes!"

Dudley said, "Mum, you don't mean that."

Petunia sighed. "Well, maybe not. But one of you could have stayed and one could have looked for a teacher, surely."

"Mum? We're _eleven_."

"And that girl-she actually wanted to take the troll on herself!"

"No, she didn't," Harry said. "She just said that to keep us out of trouble. She wasn't at the feast; she was crying in the lav. One of the Weasleys said something mean about her and she heard it. We locked the troll in with her by mistake. So we had to do something right then and there, Tante."

"Next time, look for a teacher!" Petunia cried. She thought she had made an impact, until she heard Harry mutter to Dudley, "Well, not if it's Snape. You've never want to find him, even on a good day."

Petunia suspected that it was going to be a long, long year.


	18. Chapter 18: SAFETY LAST

Many thanks for the reviews, which I greatly appreciate.

Moi, that's a possibility.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: SAFETY LAST

_In which it's Petunia Dursley v. Albus Dumbledore, Round 2._

It seemed to Petunia that Hogwarts was a hotbed of danger-there always seemed to be something going on that was probably going to cause either Harry, or Dudley, or both, to be injured, or be at risk of death. There seemed to be a host of toxic things in (and outside of) the Castle, but she was particularly concerned about the Hogwarts gameskeeper, Hagrid. A huge, shambling man, who seemed rather simple-minded and naive, he lived in a hut on the Castle grounds, and kept a variety of dangerous pets, to which the boys seemed unduly attracted. Hagrid was thoroughly and blindly attached to Dumbledore, and sang his praises to the boys, something which Petunia deprecated. She didn't exactly dislike the Headmaster (or maybe she did, she could never quite decide), but she was thoroughly exasperated by his _laissez-faire_ attitude to-well, to just about everything. Alright, that _was_ an exaggeration. But really not much of one.

For instance, just after Christmas, she looked out of the kitchen window at the Manor and saw Harry riding the Moonfleet. Or, to be more accurate, what appeared to be Harry's legs. Horrified, she decided that he had splinched himself (she had been learning the beginnings of apparition recently, and the boys had been thoroughly fascinated by the project) and had rushed to the orchard. She had reached out to stop the Moonfleet as it sped by, and had grasped, unexpectedly, a handful of cloth. She yanked it, hoping to halt the broom, and uncovered an unsplinched Harry, with Dudley behind him, both riding happily under an invisibility cloak. (She had strictly forbidden them to double up on the Moonfleet.) And where had he gotten such a thing? Dumbledore, of course. The Headmaster had neither told her about this nor asked her permission. It had belonged to James Potter, he said, and thus it now belonged to Harry. "I'm sure James Potter owned weapons, too," Petunia had said furiously. "Would you give _them_ to his eleven-year-old son?" Dumbledore looked thoughtful, but hadn't actually said that he wouldn't. There were definitely times when Petunia wondered if the man was barking mad. _He's probably just a wizard, dammit. Or maybe great talent in magic turns the brain as thoroughly as the magical surge does._ He seemed unconcerned by her incredulous reaction, too.

Petunia, in an excess of irritation, had confiscated the cloak and the Moonfleet, then and there. This time, Harry's protests and Dudley's arguments met with no response from her whatsoever. With the assistance of Pompey, she locked the broom and the cloak in a special magical lock-box, purchased in Diagon Alley, and told the boys they would not be using either in the foreseeable future. Harry could use Dudley's broom for Quidditch-he had one by now-or not play at all, his choice. The boys tried pouting and sulking, but Petunia warned Harry that if it didn't stop, her next step would be to withdraw her permission for him to play on his house Quidditch team. The boys subsided, with a good many mutterings. Petunia told them that the Moonfleet would be available to them, as a reward for good behaviour, always supposing they were capable of it, after school was out in the summer. The cloak would be returned to Harry on his seventeenth birthday.

Then there was Hermoine Granger, who after the incident with the troll in the Hogwarts lavatories, seemed to become attached to the boys as a permanent third wheel. Petunia had hoped if the boys had to picked up a close friend, or two, it would be Neville Longbottom, who didn't strike her as reckless, or one or both of the Hufflepuff boys from Dudley's year. But no; Hermoine Granger it was. Ordinarily, Petunia might have supposed that the child at least would exercise some caution in her dealings with Dudley and Harry, but as it turned out, not so you'd notice. It was the boys that seemed to influence her, rather than the other way around. Of course, she was a Gryffindor, and thus the element of caution was probably moot. The child was also Muggle-born; Petunia seriously wondered if her parents had realized the dangers of Hogwarts when they had allowed her to attend the wizarding school. She rather thought not. The boys had told her that the Grangers were dentists, and that Hermoine was their only child. Had her own parents known the risks of allowing Lily to attend? No, she was certain no warnings of that nature had ever been given. They'd been intrigued and delighted, but she was certain they would have never allowed Lily to go to Hogwarts if they had known what _really_ went on in the wizarding world.

If not for Pompey, Petunia would not have known about a good many things that went on either. _Perhaps ignorance is bliss. _Certainly knowledge of what was actually going on contributed to a good many sleepless nights on her part. There was Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback (Petunia was horrified to learn that genuine dragons were part of the wizarding world), punishments that involved night expeditions to the Forbidden Forest (under the supervision of Hagrid, which in Petunia's opinion, was no supervision at all), and most horrifying of the lot, the fact that Dumbledore was hiding the Philosopher's Stone at the school. Well, she supposed the fact that the embryonic Voldemort was riding piggy-back on the back of the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor's skull was even more horrifying, but it was really hard to choose. Petunia had not known what the Philosopher's Stone was, or why Voldemort wanted it; and besides which, wasn't he dead, or disembodied, or something?

So when Pompey came to tell her that the boys (and Hermoine Granger) were in the infirmary yet again, she was beside herself with fury, especially when it became obvious that they had all been in serious danger, and Harry was comatose for several days. This led to an angry parent-teachers conference with Dumbledore and the Heads of Houses. Petunia still felt she needed support, a lone Muggle-born against all these magical heavyweights; so she asked Marcella Whiteoak and the rest of the St. Mungo's healer team to accompany her. Marcella, after explaining to her the implications of the Stone and Voldemort's reappearance, agreed.

Dumbledore, as usual, tried to make Petunia feel like a hysterical, complaining, over-controlling parent. Petunia was aware that she was all three, and what was wrong with that, exactly? She was well past the point of being ashamed of it. _That won't work, old man, my ex-husband was an expert at making me feel defensive. You're a beginner by comparison. Try again_. The lack of safety controls at Hogwarts was her main preoccupation; she wanted Dumbledore to explain why he had hidden the Stone at the school.

"It wasn't safe where it was, which was at Gringotts," the Headmaster said, with an air of exaggerated patience.

"Surely, it should be a concern for the Minister of Magic?" Marcella interjected.

Petunia could tell that despite his courtesy and easy-going demeanour, Dumbledore resented and perhaps was a little alarmed by the presence of Marcella _et al_. That raised her spirits a little. _He doesn't expect this to be easy, for once._

"Cornelius? It doesn't belong to him, it belongs to an old friend of mine, Nicolas Flamel. He asked me to protect it."

"It seems to me to be a very dangerous thing, especially when you are keeping it in a school full of children," Petunia said. "Why not destroy it instead?"

"It doesn't belong to me, Mrs. Dursley. Nicolas invented the stone himself and has used it to prolong his life. He and his wife are over six hundred years old." Petunia shuddered at _that_ mental image.

"Oh, I see; you'll allow Voldemort to get a body before you'd destroy a friend's property. Interesting set of priorities," she said.

Dumbledore's politesse frayed noticeably. "I could not destroy it without my friend's permission."

"Did you ask?"

"No, of course not."

"And so how did you propose to protect it?"

"Each Hogwarts Head of House contributed a magical protection for the Stone."

"Which three eleven-year-olds were able to breach," Petunia said angrily.

"As to that," Dumbledore said, "I was really quite impressed by their abilities in that line."

"I'm sure they'll be flattered when I tell them that. And once that's done, I'm withdrawing my children from this school. I believe I'll write to the Grangers telling them I think they should do the same with their daughter. I'm not sure yet that I won't sue you for negligence as well. I'm giving it some serious thought."

Dumbledore seemed unconcerned. "You can't, Mrs. Dursley. Neither of your boys are safe anywhere else. You saw what happened. Voldemort is back, and he's looking for a body, the body he lost when he tried to kill your nephew, and the spell recoiled on him. He failed with the Philosopher's Stone, but he is not one to give up."

"Not safe anywhere else? That's rich! How safe are they here? Didn't you know you had hired Voldemort-or part of him-as your Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor?"

"He is very good at covering his tracks," Dumbledore said.

Petunia just shook her head. She could not believe the Headmaster's attitude. Dumbledore did condescend to explain to her, at some length, the working of the wards, at both her home and the school itself. He pointed out that Harry was not just in danger from Voldemort, but also his supporters. "I know that," Petunia said, "I can hardly forget it, given that Slytherin House is infested with them." Snape scowled, but didn't interrupt.

"As the Stone is destroyed," Dumbledore said, "that immediate danger is removed. But Voldemort will keep trying. And I believe that he will try to seek revenge on young Mr. Potter for his current plight."

"Well, as long as you carefully inspect the back of the skulls of any teachers you hire, we should be quite alright," Petunia said sarcastically. She was exasperated, and grew more so as the conference progressed. But as dangerous as Hogwarts seemed, she was well aware that the other schools might be even less safe.

Then there was the Manor. She had put considerable work into making it into a 'forever home' as they liked to describe it on television. The work was nowhere close to finished, but both she and the boys already loved it; it was the first home she'd had since the death of her parents. Number Four had always been Vernon's (as he liked to reiterate, over and over.) If they pulled up stakes, she'd have to abandon it, and her own education, and the small support group she was gradually acquiring. The thought chilled her. The utter isolation of her life during and just after her marriage to Vernon was not a happy memory.

Eventually, they reached a rickety compromise, which involved Marcella double-checking the wards, no further punishment expeditions to the Forbidden Forest, and no more storage at Hogwart of life-extension devices or items that might assist or attract flaming nutbar disembodied wizards. Petunia was not at all sure that this compromise would hold up very long, and in that she proved unfortunately accurate.


	19. Chapter 19: GILDED YOUTH

Well, Moi, if the boys have encountered the Mirror of Erised, they neglected to tell Petunia about it. That really tells you all you need to know about what they saw, always supposing that they did see something.

I assume that anyone reading this has also read the books, and I don't want to go on forever, rewriting them with plot elements we all know about. So some things will make the cut, and some things won't. Haven't decided on the Mirror yet.

All reviews are much appreciated.

CHAPTER NINETEEN: GILDED YOUTH

_In which Dumbledore's efforts in hiring less dangerous teaching personnel for Hogwarts are seen to be somewhat deficient. And how._

Because the boys hadn't met Petunia's condition of keeping out of trouble, she delayed the release of the Moonfleet until their birthdays, just to show them that she meant business. They grumbled long and hard about that, but under their breaths. Petunia's reaction to their end-of-term fiasco had been equally long and _much_ louder. She had also shed tears, something that still spooked the boys; they hated it when she cried. _I hate it, too; it's such an admission of failure_. She tried to impress upon the boys how reckless their behaviour had been; they admitted it, but felt that the lack of time excused them. Petunia gave up arguing the point after a time. It was the equivalent of rushing the wall, and she did not want to beat her head against a hard surface forever.

She then decided to occupy the boys' time with helping with in the repairing and upgrading of the Manor, and rather to her surprise, they went at it with a will. Dudley proved excellent at work requiring time, skill and patience, such as painting, and repairing furniture, and floors; Harry had an eye for the messier jobs, and enjoyed plastering and helping with mill-work. Pompey was dismayed by the boys working, but Petunia told him they were being punished; if the house elf community made any comments, she said, he was to tell them that. He scowled, but for a wonder didn't argue, which Petunia thought might be a first.

Despite their ongoing disgrace in the matter of the Stone, Petunia planned a birthday tea for the boys, and invited all their school friends. Rather to her surprise, even the Weasleys showed up, complete with the twins, the firstie boy, and the little girl; the party was a considerable success. Pompey was beside himself with joy to see a real social occasion at the Manor again. Petunia thought she detected him cracking a smile, though it might have been her imagination. Even Petunia rather enjoyed it, having taken the precaution of not inviting any other adults. The Weasley twins would make any party go with a swing, she thought, especially when they weren't under the gimlet eye of their mother. Petunia decided to let the boys and their guests play Quidditch in the garden, and even allowed Harry to ride the Moonfleet for the occasion. The resulting game was fast and furious, and even Petunia, not in general a Quidditch fan, enjoyed watching and listening, particularly to the Weasley twins' shouted quips.

After the party guests had left, and they had helped Petunia tidy up the house and garden, the boys seemed rather tired, and inclined to do no more than play wizarding chess in the kitchen (Dudley had received a handsome set as a birthday gift.) Petunia was drinking a cup of tea and idly watching them, when Pompey, looking thunderous, stormed into the room dragging another elf behind him.

A quick glance told Petunia that this was not one of the Manor's elves. Since house elves didn't generally move about very much, she was rather surprised. The elf was noticeably thin and wore what looked to be a threadbare pillow case. "Who is this?" she asked Pompey, who scowled.

"I don't know him, but I found him sneaking about the Manor. The elves at the Castle should be able to tell me who he is," Pompey said, as he gave the unfortunate elf a shake.

Petunia said to the strange elf: "Tell me who you are, if you please?"

He shivered noticeably. "Dobby is my name, Mistress."

"Well, Dobby, how can we help you? Are you lost?"

The elf shook his head. His eyes were wandering around the room, and fastened upon Harry, who was staring at him. "Is that Harry Potter, Mistress?"

Pompey shook him angrily. "Stop that, Pompey!" Petunia said, disturbed. "Why do you ask?"

"I have a message for him."

"You can tell me, then. I'm his aunt."

The elf, with a rather pathetic attempt at dignity, bowed to her. Petunia nodded to him, and said, "Harry, do you know this elf?"

"No, Tante," Harry said, coming to stand by her chair. "I don't believe I've seen him before."

"Harry Potter!" said the elf, bowing to him. "An honour it is to meet you!"

Harry looked rather startled by this salutation and looked to Petunia for guidance. She mimed a shrug. He then said, with a bow of his own: "Um...nice to meet you, too."

The stray elf gave him a genuine smile; then he turned solemn. To Petunia he said: "Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts!"

"Why?" asked Harry.

"I can't say, but Dobby heard that there is great danger for you at Hogwarts School."

"You've heard from whom?" Petunia asked sharply.

The elf avoided her gaze. "Dobby can't say, he is behaving badly enough as it is."

Pompey could stand it no longer; he rushed at Dobby and began shaking him again. "Who is your master? Tell me!" Petunia and Harry jumped in and tried to separate them, and in the resulting melee, Dobby slipped through Pompey's grip and ran for it.

The boys seemed to take the warning with a grain of salt; but Petunia was deeply disturbed by it. Pompey told her that the elf's manner and dress suggested that he was employed by a Death Eater family. "A bad one," he said bluntly, shaking his head. Petunia asked him to make further enquiries, without much hope he would learn anything more. She did send an owl to Dumbledore, warning him about the incident, but didn't expect much reaction from him; and indeed she got none.

_Well, that was a great start to the school year. And I hoped that things would improve._

When Petunia looked at the equipment and book lists for Hogwarts for the new term, she was confused. No less than seven books by Gilderoy Lockhart? That seemed excessive, ever for wizards. Mrs. Figg could not tell her much about him when she was asked-Petunia and the boys had gone to Surrey to see to Number Four and prepare its lawn and gardens for the winter. Petunia was thinking of renting it out, but had not yet decided. They might need a refuge farther away from Hogwarts than Hogsmeade in the future, and she didn't want to eliminate any possibilities just yet.

The healer team at St. Mungo's had asked Petunia to participate in an ongoing study of the magical surge, and since she felt she owed them a good deal, she agreed. It involved her visiting St. Mungo's once or twice per month, or one of the healers visiting her at the Manor to monitor her magical progress, but Petunia didn't mind. It got her out of Hogsmeade every so often, or scored her a visitor, which she considered an advantage. Sometimes she just needed to talk to an adult. So on the way back to the Manor with the boys, she stopped in at St. Mungo's. But when she mentioned Lockhart, she was surprised by the mixed reaction. Marcella smiled and looked positively pink-cheeked, for only the second occasion that Petunia could ever recall. Hector and Titus, however, looked disgusted. "Him!" Titus muttered. Hector grimaced.

Gilderoy Lockhart, to judge by the photograph on the cover of the book that Marcella defiantly produced, was a handsome wizard with blonde curly hair and blue eyes. Petunia thought that he looked a bit too pleased with himself, and the impression he was making, but didn't want to offend Marcella, so she passed the book back without comment.

She also had the impression that the good cops were restraining themselves with an effort. When Marcella left the room to perform some follow-up tests on the boys-she said-Petunia asked them: "Why seven of his books?" she asked. "It's a lot for parents to afford."

"Buy second hand, I'm betting there are plenty available," Titus said. "And the reason that you have to buy all those books is that he's the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts."

Petunia looked resigned. "Well, that explains it, I suppose. Do you think he'll be any good? Because taking advantage of his position like that doesn't seem too promising. Not that he could be worse than Quirrell."

"Don't bet on it," Hector said ominously. "Titus and I have tried to get that charlatan stowed away in Azkaban for years. Marcella has always blocked us. She thinks he's misunderstood."

"And is he?"

"No; we understand him very well. But witches seem to like him. Alas. If we had Marcella on board, we could probably put him where he belongs."

"Azkaban? Isn't that a bit extreme?"

"He only looks harmless," Titus said. "We've seen spell damage that we've been able to trace to him, but only tentatively. He likes _obliviate_, damn him."

"The memory charm? Why that one, in particular?"

Hector said reluctantly: "We're not certain, other than that's perhaps the only spell the idiot does well."

"Why on earth would Dumbledore hire yet another dodgy DADA professor?"

Hector sighed. "There hasn't been a DADA professor that stayed at Hogwarts more than a year in a very long time. We're not sure why. But it does seem that Dumbledore is having difficulty in filling that particular post. All the rest of the staff have been there for some time."

All in all, Petunia had plenty of food for thought in the next week. When she took the boys to Diagon alley to buy their school supplies, she did purchase Lockhart's books second hand, as Titus had advised, and bought only one set for the two boys. "You can share," she said, when they commented. "Just because we have some money now, doesn't mean we're going to waste it."

But Petunia found that she couldn't avoid Lockhart quite so easily. He accosted her in the halls of school during the first week of classes. He was wearing, she noted with disfavour, a lilac robe with gold and silver stars. His teeth were so white she could see her disapproving reflection in them. "Your name is Petunia Dursley, isn't it?" he asked with a meant-to-be charming smile.

"So I'm told," she said, in a not-encouraging tone.

"I understand you are an adult student here."

"No," Petunia said. "I volunteer as a student teacher in exchange for tutoring by the professors."

"I'll be happy to tutor you, Petunia. I'm sure you will enjoy hearing about my many adventures-"

"_Mrs. Dursley_, if you please," Petunia said with emphasis. "That's not necessary, thank you, the Headmaster teaches me Defense." Lockhart was wearing a strong cologne that was about to give her an allergy attack, she could tell. She leaned as far away from him as she politely could.

"And I also understand that Harry Potter is your nephew."

"What of it?" Petunia's voice was frigid.

"Very famous, isn't he? I could give him some pointers about how to handle celebrity, I certainly have a lot of experience with it-"

He gabbled on and on, and grasped Petunia's arm to hold her in place when she tried to escape. Petunia hated being pawed by strangers, particularly strangers she didn't like. She tried to wrench her arm away, and failed. Lockhart was surprisingly strong.

"Is there a reason you are man-handling Mrs. Dursley, Lockhart?" a hard voice said. _It must be a cold day in Hell because I'm actually glad to see Snape. I've reached a new low, I suppose. In another minute, I would have burst into a chorus of "Please Release Me."_

"I'm not man-handling her," Lockhart said. "We are just discussing my career."

"_He's_ discussing his career," Petunia said to Snape, _sotto voce_. "_I'm_ trying to escape."

Snape's brows rose, and he shepherded Petunia past Lockhart and into the Hall.

Petunia's reaction to Lockhart was not favourable. "He's a ponce," she said to Snape bluntly. "Which would be tolerable if he were a competent one, which he quite obviously isn't. The boys tell me he seems to know next to nothing about the subject he purports to teach. And frankly, has Dumbledore looked into his background? Predators infest schools, and he strikes me as a likely one. And let us just say, the parents of female students need not worry."

"Not to worry; I doubt Little and Large would interest him," Snape said in a bored voice. "Not pretty enough. Malfoy is, perhaps, so I will keep an eye on the situation."

"I wouldn't rely on _your_ judgment, in any case," said Petunia, nettled by his attitude and with a significant glance at Snape's forearm.

For a wonder, Snape kept his temper. "Then why did you raise the subject with me?" he said, coldly. "I could be doing something useful and/or interesting, instead of talking to you."

"I assume you know what's Dumbledore's thinking. So-what _was_ he thinking when he hired Lockhart?"

"He was probably thinking that Lockhart was the only applicant for the post."

"I can't believe that!"

"Lockhart volunteered, apparently. Very well known wizard, after all. Dumbledore really didn't have any choice, and if Lockhart's an idiot, which he quite demonstratively is, what real harm can he do?"

Snape languid disinterest infuriated Petunia. "Dumbledore said that about Quirrell, and look how _that_ turned out! He was carrying Voldemort about as a passenger, and Dumbledore didn't even know about it. And neither did you! Call you tell me why that is, if you please? Aren't you a Death Eater, after all? Shouldn't you have been able to tell?"

Snape went white, as he did whenever anyone mentioned his past. "It's none of your business, you nosey bitch!" he hissed at her, as he passed. "Yes," said Petunia. "By all means, let's just ignore that you joined the Nazi Wizarding Brigade-voluntarily, too!"

Snape turned on a dime and his fist sailed just past her nose; he'd pulled the punch at the very last moment. "Good thing you didn't hit me," Petunia observed, very dry. "For you, that is. If you had, I'd have had you up in front of the Wizengamot for it."

Snape made an inarticulate noise and fled the room. Petunia found herself trembling. Suddenly she was back in Surrey, enduring Vernon's constant verbal and physical heckling. She wasn't sure whom she found creepier, Snape or Lockhart. It looked like the boy's second year was shaping up to be a second disaster.


	20. Chapter 20: THE DAMNED AND THE DESPERATE

Moi: A delectable idea. I had a hard time resisting it.

Robert Escher: Glad you think it qualifies as humour...such things are very subjective, though as least _one_ of you got the joke about the Methodists in Chapter 6. :)

Petunia and Snape are rather alike in some ways; they don't interact easily with other people, a problem which has a source in their respective childhoods. Petunia because of her self-consciousness (note she always thinks people dislike her when they first meet her, when in fact they probably don't even think about it.) Snape frequently doesn't get social signals, especially with women (which is why his relationship with Lily broke down). Petunia was sniping at him because of her anxiety over the situation, but Snape took what she said at face value. That said, he shouldn't even _thought_ of hitting her.

CHAPTER TWENTY: THE DAMNED AND THE DESPERATE

_In which the author of this fanfic balks at re-reading "The Chamber of Secrets" again and therefore, due to her bone-laziness, we will do what film buffs call 'montage' instead. As Petunia would say: "Sue me."_

"What do you know about this Lupin?" she asked Snape, having tracked him down in the dungeons for her weekly lesson.

He gave her a glare and said, curtly: "Ask Minerva."

"I never get anything but the party line from Minerva. I'm asking you."

"And what makes you think that I won't do the same?"

"I know you too well. What's up? Only the damned or the desperate will take that job, and so which is Lupin?"

Snape's sallow face twitched. "Both," he said, and without further explanation, he did one of his patented sweeping motions out the door. _One of these days, I'm going to pin his robes to the floor before he does that and enjoy watching the resulting show._

Petunia was sure she'd had exactly the same conversation with Snape at least twice before in the previous years. She didn't know why she bothered. They always ended up the same way. But she had watched Snape's face as Lupin was introduced by Dumbledore to the school. _Not a fan. Very obviously not a fan. _And she rather thought that they had been in the same year at Hogwarts. _Interesting_.

Petunia was resigned by now to the fact that the DADA professor at Hogwarts was going to be a hazard on the hoof, no matter who it happened to be. They seemed to come in no other flavour. Though Lupin seemed at least superficially less egregious than Quirrell or Lockhart, appearances could be deceptive, to say the least of it.

Quirrell was dead-Petunia considered him no loss-and Lockhart had been carted off to St. Mungo's psychiatric ward, where Hector and Titus were pleased to report that he was, in their considered opinion, barking mad. "Excuse us if we don't knock ourselves out trying to cure him, either. We have more important things to do-have a pint, listen to the radio, get a haircut-you get the picture." Petunia did.

Marcella had been embarrassed by Lockhart's fate and even more embarrassed by the fact that she had been wrong about him. That must have been a novel experience for her, Petunia thought, but she forebode to rub it in. She'd been wrong too often herself.

Lockhart had left a fine mess behind him, however. Petunia shuddered to even remember it. He had attempted to obliviate the boys and had been unsuccessful because a cave-in in the dungeons had damaged Dudley's wand, which he tried to use. Again Petunia had been exasperated by the boys' judgment. "If you're going to abduct a teacher," she cried, "why not try a competent one?" "But we couldn't abduct a _competent_ one, Tante," said Harry reasonably. "They would have stopped us." _Oh, of course. It made sense, of a kind, when you thought about it._

Petunia was horrified at what happened next. Among the other things Dumbledore didn't appear to know about Hogwarts was that there was a giant basilisk in the dungeons that petrified anything that looked at it. And that the little Weasley girl had been strangling cockerels and writing messages in blood on the walls, apparently because she was possessed by Voldemort's diary. Or something. Petunia felt that the whole thing was insane, but she had been unable to call Dumbledore all the names she had stored up for the purpose because a tearful Molly Weasley had rushed to embrace her and apologize for being 'sniffy' about Harry during the Weasleys' visit to Number 4. She wanted, she said, to thank Harry for saving her little girl's life. Petunia supposed he had done so, but she didn't like to make a big fuss of it. Harry seemed happier about freeing the unfortunate Dobby-whom they had traced to the Malfoys, along with Voldemort's diary. Lucius Malfoy had turned out to be the nasty wizard they had encountered at Quality Quidditch Supplies. Petunia was hardly surprised.

Petunia saw no reason to put off the evil day, and so she was formally introduced to Remus Lupin by Minerva McGonagall in the halls of Hogwarts. Lupin had smiled politely: "We've met," he said.

Petunia said, startled: "I don't think-"

"Not formally," Lupin interjected, "and I'm not surprised you don't remember me. It was the night your parents were-the night of the fire at your parent's home."

Petunia felt her face flush. "Which one were you?"

"Fence post," Lupin said. "Your aim was excellent, by the way."

Petunia didn't know what to say. Lupin talked on about James Potter with great affection, and Petunia supposed that Harry might like to hear this. Though Lupin seemed very pleasant, she heard echoes of her own voice. _Only the damned and the desperate take this job_. And Snape had said Lupin was both. Usually Petunia didn't take Snape's comments or complaints seriously, but this time something-instinct? history?-told her to beware.

Alas, the boys liked Lupin. They enjoyed his lessons, for unlike his predecessors, he was evidently a good teacher. They frequently invited him to Sunday lunch. Petunia could scarcely say no, and he was polite enough to her. _Though I feel that he didn't take that hurled fence post as lightly as he pretends_. She was equally pretending that she enjoyed his visits, for she didn't.

For one thing, his school days reminiscences excluded Dudley. Dudley had few happy memories of _his _father, and no one, including his mother, his cousin, Mrs. Figg nor Pompey, the four main people in his life, had a good word to say for Vernon. Petunia wondered if it mattered to him. _I'm guessing that it does, and I'm wishing it didn't._

For another, Lupin's memories of James Potter included a lot of reckless behaviour, of the sort that Petunia was already having a difficult enough time controlling in her own home. She felt that the boys needed no additional encouragement.

And for a third, though Petunia wished that she couldn't admit it, she worried about Lupin talking to Harry about Lily. _I know I'm not much of a parent. No argument here. But I do wish Lupin wouldn't make sure that Harry compares me unfavourably with his real mother. I have troubles enough._

When the boys told Petunia, with great glee, of Lupin's mocking of Snape during their lesson in boggarts, she was amused but also suddenly interested. _It appeared that Lupin liked Snape just as much as Snape liked him. I wonder why? _She struggled to remember what Lily had said about Snape and James-something about James and his friends tormenting Snape. Remembering Snape as a youth, Petunia could scarcely blame them; she'd have done it herself with a will had she had the requisite magic. Something about Snape brought out the worst in most people, in her opinon. _His personality is the logical culprit._

And then the escape of Sirius Black from Azkaban burst over the wizarding world like a thunderclap of particular violence. It was all over the wizarding newspapers-they did not have television, for which Petunia supposed she should be grateful. Petunia remembered the name: Harry's parents first pick as his guardian in their wills. The man who was in Azkaban for multiple murder. The one she had laid out on the cobblestones with a left cross on the night her parents died.

After her Potions lesson the next day, during which Snape was noticeably touchy and had reached new heights of obnoxiousness, she managed to keep her temper long enough to ask him if he knew Sirius Black. She knew that he did, of course; but she wanted to see what he would say.

Snape shrugged and said, "He was one of James Potter's friends."

"Oh," said Petunia. "Which one?"

"His main one. They were two of a kind."

"What is he in prison for, exactly?"

"Betraying Lily and Potter to Voldemort."

Petunia was astonished. "Why would he do that?"

Snape shrugged. "He came from an old—and very inbred-pureblood family. Most of them were Death Eaters, or lunatics, or both. He definitely qualified as a lunatic, at least. Maybe he decided to join them, I don't know."

"What did he have to say about it?"

"He didn't say anything, as it happens."

"Didn't he get a trial?"

And as it turned out, he hadn't, and Snape appeared uninterested in why that was. Petunia knew better than to ask questions of Dumbledore—he'd bring out his best patriarchal wizard manner, and try to make her feel like a silly Muggle female. He was very good at it, even she had to admit that. Minerva McGonagall intimidated Petunia even more than Dumbledore at times; and asking her about the past was one of those times. Snape could be helpful if he felt like it; the problem was, he very seldom did. That left Professor Sprout and Madame Pomfrey, both of whom liked Petunia and liked gossip even better—luckily.

Madame Pomfrey gave her a condensed version of the Saga of Sirius Black, complete with asides. Petunia thought he sounded like an unlikely Death Eater; and the lack of a trial-wizards did have them-was very troubling. She wondered what Lupin, who appeared to be the sole survivor of the group, thought of the whole thing. She did not have to ask what Snape thought; yielding to an uncertain temper, he bluntly told her that he believed Lupin and Black were conspirators, and that she ought to consider whether the DADA professor was a danger to Harry.

"Of course he is," Petunia said wearily. "Why should he be any different from the rest?"

It also meant that she had a very unpleasant task ahead of her; talking to Lupin about it.


	21. Chapter 21: THE GRIM IN THE GARDEN

I want to thank the little cadre of people who review regularly. I appreciate this, because at this point, I'm writing the chapters from scratch in two days, and mistakes are bound to creep in at that pace. They (and syntax errors, also inevitable) need to be pointed out, because I intend to re-write the story to correct them. I just wanted to see how long I can keep it up (one chapter takes four hours, sans polishing, and frankly, I'm fading fast.) My memory for the books is also not as good as I thought.

Moi, just because I don't take some of your suggestions doesn't mean I'm not filing them away for perhaps another story. Your feedback is really invaluable at times.

A: I guess I did not explain this sufficiently, but "The Chamber of Secrets" turns out to be full of padding (including the least relevant HP Chapter ever, IMO), and I therefore did it as a narrative in the next chapter. Lame, I know, but it really contains only one nugget of real plot: the diary horcrux. Oh, and giant spiders. I am, like Ron, arachnophobic.

Phoenix: This is indeed a Severitus. Apparently the rules of the challenge mean that element doesn't come up until later. I can find only a précis of the challenge, though, not all the rules, so I'm winging it.

Cherry: Glad you are enjoying it!

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: THE GRIM IN THE GARDEN

_In which the Brothers Grimm meet a Grim, and grimness (grimity?) ensues._

Before Petunia could talk to Lupin, however, the school was disrupted by the arrival of the Minister of Magic. He was closeted with Dumbledore for some time, and when they emerged, neither man looked happy. The Minister left; Dumbledore summoned the Heads of House to his office, along with Petunia.

"The Minister has insisted that the school must be protected, and as such, he is posting Dementors to patrol the grounds," he told them.

"Dementors!" Minerva McGonagall exclaimed. "Around a school full of children? Isn't that extreme?"

Dumbledore drummed his fingers on his desk, his eyes averted. "He's insisting; as is the Wizengamot. Because of Sirius Black."

"Why on earth would they assume Black would come to Hogwarts?" Minerva cried.

"They are sure he will," Dumbledore said, sighing.

"Can they guarantee that the Dementors won't hurt the students?" Professor Sprout asked.

"My dear Pomona, they can't even guarantee that the Dementors won't hurt the teachers, let alone the students. I won't conceal from you that I think this idea is utter madness, but politicians will be politicians. Cornelius must be seen as doing _something_, I suppose. I want all of the Heads to instruct their prefects to ensure that the students don't stray from the grounds. It's worth their souls if they do."

"Black is after the Boy Who Lived, I presume," Snape said in a bored-sounding tone. Petunia knew him well enough to note that he wasn't really bored at all, this time.

"Just so," Dumbledore nodded.

"Harry?" Petunia said. Her anxiety level went ratcheting up.

Dumbledore said, "We will have to discuss ways and means carefully, Mrs. Dursley. If the boys visit you in Hogsmeade from now on, they will have to go by floo or be escorted by a Professor."

Petunia nodded. When the Heads filed out, Dumbledore held her back.

"Cornelius Fudge informed me that while Black was still in Azkaban, he was heard saying: 'He's at Hogwarts, he's at Hogwarts' over and over again," he informed her. "They think he's referring to Harry. It seems obvious that he is coming here. You will have to take every precaution necessary."

"But-he's Harry's godfather, and in fact, his guardian by law," Petunia faltered.

"He's an escaped convict, and he's spent eleven years in Azkaban," Dumbledore said. "Eleven _years_. The people in Azkaban are seldom sane after even a short period there. The Dementors guard the prison, and they have a dreadful effect on the inmates. They suck every happy thought from their souls. It's like living in a bath your worst feelings-forever."

Petunia thought about her own acquaintance with her worst feelings, and shivered.

Dumbledore observed this with-did she imagine it?-something like sympathy in his eyes. _I wonder what *his* worst feelings are? He may be quite different under that studied air of benevolent superiority. You don't reach that age without some horrendous mistakes being made, and intelligence is not always a shield against them._

Petunia hurried home and in the next few days, had the wards of the Manor inspected, strengthened, and just as a precaution, reset; and alerted Pompey and the rest of the house elves to beware of anything or anyone they saw that they did not know. Dobby, now working at the Castle, promised to keep her posted on the happenings there. Pompey pouted about that. He still had no use for Dobby, particularly as he was now _accepting money_ for his work. In the world of house elves, this was apparently _infra dig_ in the extreme. Petunia told Pompey that they needed all the allies that they could find, and therefore, in short, he was to suck it up. He sulked a good bit, just to let her know he was displeased, but he did comply, and perhaps even agreed with her point.

When the boys came home that weekend, Petunia insisted that Dumbledore provide an escort for them. If she was hoping for Minerva McGonagall or Pomona Sprout, she was to be disappointed. Probably because Dumbledore had a unenlivening sense of humour, he asked Severus Snape to take care of it. Snape was scowling when she first saw him, and any apologetic feelings Petunia may have had for requesting the service subsided rather quickly.

"You will stay to lunch with us, of course, Professor Snape," she said in her politest voice.

Snape looked like he'd rather have a proctology exam with a dull axe. The boys looked even less enthused. But evidently Dumbledore had instructed Snape to remain with the boys during their visit and accompany them back to the Castle, and orders were orders. Luckily Arabella Figg was also in attendance, as she had several cats to sell in Hogsmeade, and Petunia had invited her to stay over for a few days to facilitate that. Petunia was glad of her presence, as she acted as a lightning rod during the meal that followed.

Snape sat down at the table with a decided thump and his manner conveyed that he clearly meant to cast a damper over the entire occasion. Petunia was damned if she would let him ruin her rare time with her children; so she ignored him and asked the boys how their week had gone.

Dudley blurted: "Mum, Harry got the Grim in Divination." Harry elbowed him, his face flushing.

"The Grim? What's that?"

"It's the omen of death," Snape said, in his oleaginous voice. He smirked at Petunia.

Petunia glared at him, and said to Harry, "You don't believe in that nonsense, do you, Harry?"

"No, I don't," Harry said, stoutly.

"Good. Because I wouldn't believe anything Sybill Trelawney said." Petunia wondered why Snape flushed suddenly. "She wouldn't know the future if it hit her in the eye with a Ouija board."

"Are you insinuating that a Hogwarts teacher is incompetent, Mrs. Dursley?" Snape asked sharply.

"I'm not insinuating anything. I'm _saying_ it. You met Quirrell and Lockhart, didn't you? You've smelt Trelawney's breath in the mornings, too, I imagine. And you can still ask me that question?"

The sniping then began in earnest. The boys looked delighted every time Petunia placed a shot over Snape's bow. Not that Snape didn't reply in kind; he did. The insults flew, Petunia's blunt, Snape's more subtle. Even Arabella Figg looked intermittently amused, and occasionally buried a laugh in her teacup.

They were interrupted by a sudden commotion that appeared to be coming from the walled garden outside the Manor. It sounded like a cat fight, literally, though much louder. Petunia knew that Mrs. Figg's quartet of cats were disporting themselves in the garden, and she started up from the table, the rest of group not far behind her.

The garden was still in the process of clearance; when Petunia had moved into the Manor, it had been a jungle of out-of-control blackberry bushes, an old and untended border of perennials, and gnarled, overgrown, neglected trees. It had taken a lot of work to clear even part of it, and there was still a lot of work that needed yet to be done. But it was clear enough for the members of the tea party to see what was causing the noise.

In the centre of the cleared section of the garden, the five cats were grouped around and facing the bushes at the base of an old tree sprawled along the stone wall. Their caterwauling was deafening.

"What the devil-!" muttered Snape.

"What's that under the tree?" Dudley said to Harry, "Does it look like a dog to you?"

"Yeah, it does."

It did indeed look like a dog, a very big, a very black, and a very ragged-looking dog, with great evil-looking yellow eyes. Whenever it tried to advance from the base of the tree, the cats attacked, spitting and scratching. Mrs. Figg rushed forward, though Petunia felt that the cats scarcely seemed to need her help. She changed her mind a moment later, when the dog bowled the cats over, and advanced towards them. Petunia darted out and pulled Mrs. Figg back to the group.

The dog stopped several yards from them, staring. Snape had his wand out, and seeing it, the dog backed away. _Sentinent, then. An ordinary dog would want to play catch with a stick._

Snape ran forward toward the dog, obviously hoping to drive it back. The dog stood its ground, neatly dodging the spell Snape aimed at it. It then rushed the wizard, bowling Snape over, leaping over him, and heading toward Petunia, Mrs. Figg and the boys. Petunia had her wand out in a wink of an eye. Again the dog stopped; and yet it didn't look at her. It stood still and was staring at the boys; staring at Harry, in fact, or at least she thought so. A second ticked by as Snape struggled to his feet, and whirled around, wand at the ready. The dog wasn't looking at Snape, yet seemed to sense his presence. It swerved towards the right, leaped over the cats, who had recovered themselves and were attacking it again, this time from the rear, and then leapt the six-foot wall with what seemed like scarcely any effort.

Snape ran after it, swearing. Petunia quickly shepherded the protesting boys into the house and told them to stay there. She then returned to the garden to help Mrs. Figg round up the cats. Snape returned to the house after nearly an hour, his face dark.

"What _was_ that?" Petunia cried.

Snape grimaced, wiping mud off his robe with one hand. "Get the boys ready to go," he said curtly.

"They are not going anywhere until you answer me! What was that?"

"I don't know for sure, but someone has some questions to answer."

"Whom do you mean?"

"Professor Lupin," Snape spat out the words.

After a long and often loud argument in which neither of them spared any of the other's feelings-what else was new?-Petunia and Snape _both_ accompanied the boys back to the school. Petunia refused to leave Mrs. Figg alone at the Manor under the circumstances, and so she came, too. Snape insisted on travelling by floo, something Petunia hated, but on this occasion, she agreed to it with minimum protest. When they arrived at the Castle, Snape sent the boys to their dormitories. Petunia resented this assumption of authority, but she could scarcely argue.

Snape then went to Dumbledore's office, Petunia and Mrs. Figg trailing behind him. He didn't bother to slow down so that they could catch up to him, by way of protesting their presence, Petunia supposed. She didn't care; she wasn't going to be left out of this discussion, whether Snape approved or not.

Dumbledore listened to the story patiently. "I am glad you were there, Severus," he said, soothingly.

"Oh, yes," said Petunia. "He was very useful! The dog knocked him down and jumped right over him!"

Snape glowered at her. Dumbledore raised a hand. "If we quarrel among ourselves, we are hardly dealing with the situation, are we?"

"We are not," Snape agreed coldly. "The dog wasn't a Grim, of course. But it wasn't a dog, either. I think it was an animagus."

"If so, it is an unregistered one. What makes you think so, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, after a pause.

"The size. It wasn't small enough for a dog-that breed, in any case. It wasn't a wolf, either; at least, I don't think so..." his voice trailed off.

Dumbledore looked at his hands. "Perhaps we should hear what Professor Lupin has to say."

Petunia felt she had missed something. How did they suddenly jump from the Grim to Lupin? But she forbore to ask in case they decided to eject her, something Snape would want to do if he happened to remember she and Mrs. Figg were there. Some undercurrent in the room disturbed her; she had the feeling this ground had been covered by the two men many times before, without resolution. She also felt their deep disagreement on the subject.

Lupin came into Dumbledore's office looking tired and rather worn. He sat and listened to Snape's account of the Grim in the garden without much expression, and then looked at the Headmaster.

"If you are wondering, Headmaster," he said evenly, "No, that was not me."

"I never imagined that it was, Remus."

Lupin glanced at Snape. "You saw me drink the potion, a few days ago."

Snape nodded, his face dark.

"Then who was it?" Petunia asked finally, unable to keep silent.

Snape said: "I think it was Sirius Black."


	22. Chapter 22:SOMETHING'S ROTTEN IN DENMARK

Moi: As usual, your comments are very perceptive, and your plot bunnies are a-hopping.

Cherry: Thanks, I'll correct that when I repost.

Thanks to all who reviewed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: SOMETHING'S ROTTEN IN DENMARK

_In which Petunia smells a rat._

"Would someone explain to me what's going on here?" Petunia asked. She felt that she wasn't following the nuances of the conversation, a fairly common phenomenon she had at Hogwarts. Wizarding culture still was a mystery to her in a great many ways.

Snape said, "An animagus could get through the wards. Or even escape from Azkaban."

There was a silence, and then Dumbledore said gravely, "Well, Remus?"

Lupin stared at his hands. "Sirius, James and Peter all became animaguses while we were at Hogwarts. They wanted to keep me company."

"Keep you company?" Petunia asked.

"Remus was bitten by a werewolf when he was a child, and as a result he became afflicted with lycanthropy," the Headmaster said.

"Lycan-?"

"He's a werewolf," Snape said bluntly.

Petunia gasped. She looked at Dumbledore and said, "You hired a _werewolf_ as a professor at this school?"

Dumbledore was calm. "Severus very cleverly developed a potion called the Wolfsbane that renders werewolves harmless during the full moon, which is, of course, the only time they are dangerous."

"Oh, of course," Petunia said blankly. "That makes sense!" She stood up. "Headmaster, I think that you are, without equivocation, the most complete and utter lunatic I've ever met, and I've met a few, my ex-husband chief among them."

With that, she seized Mrs. Figg's wrist, and towing her, swept out.

Petunia was trembling so hard that she had to sit down just outside of the office. Mrs. Figg tried to calm her, but without much success. The office door opened and the three men filed out.

"Mrs. Dursley, I must insist that you visit the boys at Hogwarts in the near future, while this problem exists. They must stay in the Castle," Dumbledore said, stopping by where Petunia sat.

Petunia peered up at him, wondering if he was joking. _Apparently not._

"Given that Black now knows where you live, _Mrs. Dursley,_" said Snape, "I would suggest that _yo_u too move into the school for a bit."

"You must insist! Murderers outside the school and werewolves inside it! Hobson's choice, that is!" Petunia laughed, rather hysterically.

Mrs. Figg helped Petunia to her feet, and once there Petunia looked at the three men. "I'm going home," she muttered. Dumbledore looked inscrutable; Snape, angry; Lupin apologetic. Petunia literally couldn't wait to get away from all three of them. _I think testosterone must turn the brain_.

The question of safety became more urgent a few days later, when the Dementors interrupted a Quidditch game in which Harry was playing. He had actually fallen from his broom; it had been the Nimbus she had bought for him, not the Moonfleet, which had eventually been held by Madame Hooch to give him an unfair advantage in games. Petunia had not been present, but she heard the story from Dudley and Hermoine Granger. Petunia said, "They played a Quidditch game in a _thunderstorm_?" Dudley nodded, and then shrugged; and Petunia groaned. She wondered at times if Harry was in as much danger from Voldemort as he seemed to be from Dumbledore.

When Petunia visited Harry in the infirmary, she found him distraught-mostly about losing the game-and finally learned why he had fallen. The Dementors had strayed onto the pitch and they evoked his worst memory, which appeared to be their mission in life with everyone. _Omigod. If I thought that I could actually get the boys out of here, I'd do it in a heartbeat. _

However, when she visited the boys formally a week later-Minerva had agreed that she could use a visitor's suite at the school to have a private meal with them-Harry appeared to have cheered up considerably. He told her that Professor Lupin was tutoring him in a method of repelling the Dementors.

"How is it going?"

"Pretty well, I think. You have to concentrate on your happiest memory, and conjure a Patronus. Dud's started the lessons, too."

Petunia scalp prickled. She bit her lip; she was not going to say a word. She did not want to depress the boys' happy state of mind. They described the process and joked about the form their Patronuses took. Dudley's was a harpy eagle, of all things. "He can barely fly on a broomstick," said Harry, "so _that_ makes sense."

"_Au contraire_, Short-and-Skinny," said Dudley, "I happen to be a member of my House team, just the way you are."

"The Hufflepuff House team!" said Harry.

"It's not a bad team," Dudley said placidly. "We enjoy the games, even if we never seem to win one."

"And you're a Beater," said Harry.

"And a damn good one, according to my team captain."

"True enough," Harry said, under his breath to Petunia. "If he'd been in Gryffindor, he might have even made the team, as a reserve at least. Not that I'd say that to him, mind you."

Harry's Patronus was a mongoose. "It absolutely makes sense," said Dudley, "The only animal in the entire world stupid enough to attack a cobra!" Harry threw a napkin at him and they commenced a mock fight, and which made Petunia laugh. She was highly relieved to see how Harry's mood had improved, since depression was something she knew and feared, and the presence of the Dementors seemed to promote it.

But later that day, Petunia sought out Lupin in his classroom.

"Mrs. Dursley," he said, nodding politely to her. No snotty emphasis on the title, like Snape. _At least he's got nice manners. I never disdain that.  
_

"Professor Lupin, Harry told me that you're tutoring him after class. Dudley, too."

"Yes," said Lupin, looking at her rather anxiously. "I wanted both of them to be able to fend off the Dementors. They affect Harry quite severely, as I believe you know. Dudley somewhat less so, but still badly."

"I do know," Petunia said.

"Do you know what Harry hears when the Dementors get near them?" Lupin asked her.

"Yes," Petunia said dully. "He hears Voldemort murdering his mother."

Lupin sighed and said: "I wasn't hoping you didn't know. And Dudley?"

Petunia hesitated. "I don't know. He's avoiding telling me." _Very bad sign_.

"He told me about the exorcism," Lupin said.

Petunia slumped in her chair. She feared it might be that.

"It's quite an upsetting memory for him. Frightening. He also saw his father strike you during it, which was apparently he recalls with great clarity."

Petunia looked away. "I hope he doesn't remember me biting his father first," she muttered. "Or maybe I do."

Lupin tactfully ignored this aside. "And what do _you_ hear when the Dementors come near you, Mrs. Dursley?"

Petunia stared at him. "I hear the flames crackling as they destroy my parents' home. I smell the fire," she said. _I smell them roasting, but I know I can't say that. I try not even to think it, but sometimes it escapes, and then I do. The Dementors help it escape.  
_

Lupin said, "Forgive me. I knew better than to ask. A stupid, careless question."

The second time I've gotten an apology from an unrelated adult male, Petunia thought. Would wonders never cease? _Neither Dumbledore nor Snape would ever apologize to me. Is he sincere? He seems so, but what do I know about werewolves? Other than what I've learned in the fifty-two books on them in the Hogwarts library?_

"Not at all," Petunia said wearily, after a pause, "though I'm wondering if I get to ask you the same question."

"I imagine you do," Lupin said. "I see the moon."

"Well, that makes sense to me."

"Indeed. Would _you_ like to learn the Patronus spell? It might save your-not your life, but your soul."

Petunia wondered if Lupin knew that she had come here to stop the tutoring. _I'll bet he does. If he had been condescending, like Dumbledore, or mean-spirited like Snape, I'd have done it. But empathy defeats me. And if I can't control that memory, I *will* go mad.  
_

"Yes, I would."

"Good! Why don't we make a start now?"

Petunia was taken aback, but allowed herself to be persuaded. She warned Lupin that her magic could be unpredictable, and indeed, on an intricate spell like a Patronus, it proved to be so. Occasionally, the spell was clear and effective; on others, it was a downright failure. Lupin felt that the lack of consistency in her happy memories, not her uncertain magic, was to blame. Her happiest memory was Dudley's birth, but this was compromised by the quarrel with Vernon over his name; and also getting custody of the boys in court, which was interrupted by Vernon's arrest for trying to assault her. Lupin urged her to think of a happy memory that did not involve Vernon-he was certain it would improve her production of the spell-and Petunia promised that she'd try. She was always game to forget her ex-husband whenever possible.

Her Patronus—when it worked-proved to be a horse. _Big surprise, not. Or neight._

She wondered if Lupin had told the Headmaster about her lessons. _If he did, I can just imagine Dumbledore saying, 'Good work, Remus. Anything to keep her quiet.' And Snape: 'Better you than me.' You're oh so right there, Severus. He's a much better teacher than you are._

But after several lessons, she mustered up the courage to ask Lupin about Sirius Black. Lupin's face darkened. "I never thought Sirius could do what he did," he said. "He was a very good friend. I thought I knew him. After that, I wondered how I could trust my own judgment ever again."

Petunia knew that feeling well enough. "Snape told me that he didn't have a trial," she pointed out. "Isn't that unusual?"

"He was caught red-handed," Lupin said, shrugging.

"Wouldn't veritaserum have been a good precaution?" Petunia asked. She had wondered about that.

"It's not infallible, and Sirius is a very able wizard; becoming an animagus takes a great deal of skill. And Dumbledore had saved him once; I suppose he felt that once was enough."

It turned out that Sirius Black, back in the days he had attended Hogwarts, had played a prank on Severus Snape that had nearly ended in Snape being bitten by Lupin in his werewolf form. Only the intervention of James Potter, who had realized the ramifications of the prank, had prevented a disaster.

Petunia was horrified. "What would have happened to you if you had bitten him?" she asked Lupin.

"Azkaban, I imagine," Lupin said. "Dumbledore would have been in a great deal of trouble, too, since he had allowed me to attend Hogwarts despite my affliction."

"And Black wasn't expelled?" Lupin shook his head. "Dumbledore couldn't bring himself to do so, I think; Sirius really had nowhere else to go. He was estranged from his family by then. They were enthusiastic Death Eaters, and they resented his sorting into Gryffindor."

"And you were friends with Black after that?" Petunia asked him.

Lupin sighed. "Sirius was very reckless; and he hated Snape, who was poking about-he suspected what my problem was, you see. He thought Snape would be well served if I did bite him. He didn't think long-term-he never did, that was always his problem. James did realize what it meant though, and he was able to head Snape off. Thank God."

Petunia nodded, unable to speak. She disliked Snape, but she didn't wish lycanthropy on him. Or indeed, on anyone.

"It's odd how our lives all went to pieces once James was killed," Lupin said. "He came from a stable family-the only one of us who did-and he was the rudder. Once he was gone, Sirius came apart."

"Yet everyone thinks Black betrayed him?"

"I'll tell you a secret," Lupin whispered. "I pretend to believe it, but I don't. I've _never_ believed it. And yet I know it must be true."

"Why?"

"Because then he murdered Peter, and twelve Muggles, in public, with a blasting curse. They found Peter's finger; that's all that was left of him."

"Charming," muttered Petunia. "Pettigrew was an animagus, too, wasn't he?"

Lupin nodded.

"And what was his form?" Petunia asked.

"A rat," Lupin said.

"A rat? Are you serious?"

"Yes. James was a stag, Sirius a dog, and Peter was a rat."

"Isn't that rather suggestive?" Petunia asked.

"I don't know what you mean. It wasn't Peter's fault he was a rat," Lupin said, rather defensively.

"I doubt that," Petunia said. "I've being doing some reading on Patronuses, and the shape you assume is governed by your character and talents, isn't it? Or so the books say. I'm guessing it was _entirely_ Peter's fault he was a rat. Vermin don't inspire confidence, at least not in me." She remembered the pink-nosed boy that had knocked himself out on the kerb, the night her parents died. She hadn't even had to hit him. Why would Sirius Black use such a powerful blasting curse to kill someone so weak? In public? It didn't make any sense. _But then when have wizards ever been logical?_

She packed up her books, and left a rather exasperated-looking Lupin behind. _I can tell what he's thinking. Stupid Muggle female is what he's thinking. And he's probably correct. But I used to study accounting, and something here simply doesn't add up._


	23. Chapter 23: BLACK DESPAIR

Moi: You may be right, but Petunia is a Muggle-born, and she's horrified by wizarding tendencies to endanger children. (As she sees it.)

Freddie-mac: The boys wear their adopted badges and earn (and lose, too) points for their adopted Houses.

Thank you for the reviews, which are always much appreciated.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: BLACK DESPAIR

_In which Sirius Black tells the truth, and Petunia Dursley discovers a rat in rat's clothing._

A week or so later, Sirius Black broke into the Castle, obtained the password to the Griffyndor section, and scared the bejasus out of Ron Weasley, apparently mistaking him for Harry. "Some mistake," muttered Petunia, though Ron was red-headed, and Black might have thought he had inherited that from Lily, she supposed. She was hardly surprised when the boys were excited rather than frightened by this incident, and wondered if she ought to arm them. She could hear Dumbledore saying, in his mellifluous voice, that it was too dangerous. _Yes, of course it was! Just as dangerous as allowing children to play a flying game in a thunderstorm, or hiring a werewolf to instruct them._ Petunia tried carrying a knife herself, the kind that you could slip up your sleeve, just to see if it was practical. It was, but the thought of allowing Harry, at least, loose in the school with a shiv was not particularly appealing to her. However, she seriously considered giving Dudley one, and eventually did so, with strict instructions to hide it carefully, not to use it unless in dire need, and most of all, not to let his cousin know about it. _I might as well not bother; if I know him, he'll tell Harry immediately. Sometimes I think they share one brain, because they certainly act like they only have one between them. At times, anyway._

After the scare with Ron Weasley, there were several weeks of quiet, and gradually things, and people, relaxed a little. Black was not apprehended, however, so Cornelius Fudge refused to remove the Dementors from the Castle, and they maintained a chilling cordon around the school. But it was generally felt that Black must have moved on. It made sense. He had tried to kill Harry and failed. If he was going to try again, surely he would have done so already?

Dumbledore still would not allow the boys to visit Petunia at the Manor, however. Petunia simmered over this, since she felt that Dumbledore was merely using it as an excuse. But she reluctantly accepted it, at least while the Dementors were about. It was simply too dangerous. She herself had taken to using the floo to travel to the school, though she hated the effect it had on her stomach and head.

One brilliant late autumn afternoon, Petunia decided to start cleaning the two cottages in the Manor grounds. They had been in fairly good condition when she had moved in, unlike the main house, and so they had received scant attention since. They had been used for storing items cleared from the big house, and little else.

Usually Petunia was accompanied by a house elf on the grounds of the Manor, but today they were all engaged stripping hardwood on the second floor, or clearing the walled kitchen garden that she was ambitious to restart, so she set out by herself. After all, she had her wand, didn't she? The first cottage was locked, and she opened the door with her key.

It was a mess, Petunia thought ruefully, looking about her. Withered leaves everywhere. One of the windows seemed to be open; perhaps the storm had blown it off its hook. She reached up to rehook it. She heard a scuffle and looked around.

Petunia gasped. A man was standing there, a tall skeletal man in grey rags, with long matted hair, a dirty face, and wild eyes. He had her wand in his hand. She had laid it down on a table, just for a moment while she fixed the window. _You idiot Muggle, how could you be so damn stupid-!_

Petunia whirled around and charged. Sirius Black-she knew it was him-obviously wasn't expecting that, and she hit him low, about the knees, and knocked him over. She scrambled up and grabbed for her wand. He only just kept it away from her. Petunia was horrified by the smell-and he was not just filthy but verminous. But she knew it was a fight for her life, and she forgot any rules of polite behaviour. _Serial killers don't observe etiquette. _ If he had been fit, it would have been no contest; thought tall, Petunia was thin, and not particularly strong. But Black was obviously half-starved and in dreadful condition. As she shoved him off his feet, she noted his right leg; it was matted with congealed blood. She leapt to her feet, and kicked him hard in the damaged leg.

He literally howled, writhing in pain. Petunia seized her wand, and stood over him, holding it ready. He lay on the floor, sobbing.

"Get up," Petunia said, trying to catch her breath.

"I can't!"

"Get up!" Petunia snarled. Her adrenalin was already receding, leaving her shaking with fear.

"One of the farmers around here uses leg-hold traps," Black said. His voice was thin and rusty, as if unused for a very long time. "I got caught in it."

Petunia gasped. Leg-hold traps were illegal. She noticed that Black's leg was now bleeding again.

Black peered up at her. "Before you call anyone, I have to tell you something," he said urgently. "Please-please, I'm begging you, please listen. You're Lily's sister-I don't remember your name, I'm sorry, my memory's gone to hell-aren't you? Yes, you are! He's at Hogwarts!"

That's what Cornelius Fudge had reported Black as saying to him at Azkaban. "Who is?" Petunia blurted.

"That rat! Peter Pettigrew! "

"Pettigrew's dead! Or so I'm told."

"He's not dead," Black said, intense bitterness in his voice. "He framed me. _He_ betrayed Lily and James, not me. He's still alive and he's at Hogwarts. He's masquerading as Ron Weasley's rat."

Petunia knew that Ron Weasley did indeed have a pet rat; the boys had joked about the battles between Ron Weasley and Hermoine Granger because her cat tried to eat Scabbers, as the thing was called. Petunia thought rats-as-pets was par for the course-you might as well keep scorpions—but it made as much sense as anything else in the wizarding world did. _Which is to say, no sense at all._

"You told them that you were responsible," Petunia said. She had heard this from Lupin.

"I was, but not in the way they thought. I was Lily and James' Secret Keeper, but I thought I was too obvious; I decided Peter would be safer. James didn't want to change, he trusted me, but I-I persuaded him."

"What about Remus Lupin?"

"We thought Remus was too risky," Black said, grimacing. "A werewolf, you know. A lot of them joined Voldemort during the War. There's a joke!" He laughed, and he couldn't seem to stop; and then he started to cry.

Petunia got up and rummaged in the pantry. She thought that she had seen an old bottle of brandy there on a previous visit, as indeed she had. She poured a generous measure of the liquor into a glass, and gave it to Black as he sat huddled on the floor. His hand shook violently. Petunia steadied it and got the glass to his mouth. He gulped the brandy down. _Oh, dear, I hope I haven't just allowed an escaped serial killer and/or lunatic to become roaring drunk_.

But perhaps because it dulled the pain of his leg, the brandy seemed to help steady him instead. Black produced a brittle piece of newsprint from his rags and showed it to her-his filthy hands still shaking-a photograph of the Weasley family in it, taken to illustrate a story about Arthur Weasley winning some money in a lottery. On Ron's shoulder in the picture was a rat, missing its index finger. "Peter's missing his index finger, too," Black said, in a raspy whisper. "They found it at the scene of the blasting curse. That's how he framed me, the rat. That's him. I knew it as soon as I saw the picture. I knew it! And Harry's at Hogwarts."

"It seems to me that the boy has had that rat for the last three years," Petunia said. "If he was going to hurt Harry, surely he would have done so by now?"

"He's laying low to see whether Voldemort is going to return," Black said bitterly. "Then he'll do something."

Petunia was not sure that she believed any of this; but one thing seemed certain to her: Black did. Another certainty was that he was very distraught. He periodically wept as he talked, and shivered with what Petunia thought was fever. It was obvious that the leg needed attention, or he would be in even more trouble than he was. _No trial, and nobody seems terribly concerned about that, either. Is he mad, or wronged, or both? Why don't I call Dumbledore? Don't I want to protect Harry? What the hell's wrong with me? And did I seem as mad to other people in the past as this pathetic man now seems to me?_

Petunia found herself wrapping a towel around Black's leg, and fastening it tightly. He was now becoming quite delirious. _He needs a doctor. If I turned him in, how soon would he get one? Would he get one at all? I know the answer, don't I? I'm talking about the same people who deliberately dumped an orphaned baby on my doorstep._

She looked down and the twitching, trembling, unconscious man and made a decision.

When Petunia arrived through the floo to the mind-healing section at St. Mungo's, she found Titus McWhirter washing up. He was surprised to see her; she usually let them know ahead of time if she was going to stop by. And he knew she disliked travelling by floo. "Is something the matter, Petunia?" he asked, shaking his hands in the sink and grabbing a towel.

Petunia fidgeted. "Where's Marcella and Hector?" she asked, looking around nervously. She had thought that Hector might be the one of the healer team that she would approach for help.

"Marcella's attending a healer convention in the States, God help them," Titus said easily, though Petunia could see he was on alert. "And Hector's on vacation in Ireland."

"Oh." _And a very deflated 'oh' that was, too_.

"Can I help you?" Titus asked, pretending he didn't notice her tone. "Is something the matter?"

"Yes," Petunia muttered. "I need a doctor, Titus, but I'm going to have to ask you for a promise that you won't tell anyone."

"I _can't_ tell anyone, Petunia," Titus said, peering at her. "Confidentiality, and all that."

"It's not me that's sick. I need some veritaserum, too. Do you have any?"

"Yes, of course we do; we received a new batch just today, too," Titus responded. "What do you need it for? One of the boys?"

"No, it's not the boys. I need you to promise you won't tell anyone before I say more."

After some argument, Titus promised, though Petunia could tell that he was sorry he had done so once he had accompanied her back through the floo to the cottage. Sirius Black still lay sprawled on the floor, and blood was soaking rapidly through the towel she had wrapped around his leg. Titus gasped, and knelt beside him.

"I came in here to clean this afternoon, and he attacked me from behind, and tried to grab my wand." _Well, actually he grabbed my wand, which I left hanging about because I was insanely careless. But you don't need to know *all* the details.  
_

Titus looked up sharply. "Did he-?"

"No; he's in rotten shape, luckily. I was able to get my wand back by kicking him in his bad leg. The wound is from a leg-hold trap, by the way." Titus inhaled sharply and shook his head.

He spent the next half hour dealing with Black's leg. Petunia had learned enough from Madame Pomfrey to assist him, after a fashion. Black was only half-conscious, which was probably fortunate for him, and quite possibly them as well.

"He's lucky," said Titus, as he finished bandaging Black's leg, "another night with that wound and he would have lost the leg."

"Well, if the Dementors kiss him," said Petunia, "I doubt if he'd care if he has one leg or two."

"True. Tell me, Petunia, why didn't you notify the Castle?"

"Because I intend to find out whether Sirius Black is a villain or not," Petunia said, "and it's going to be right now. That's why I asked you to bring the veritaserum."

"Now, Petunia?"

"Yes, now; veritaserum works best on people who are slightly out of it, isn't that so? I think he qualifies right at the moment. Give me the bottle-three drops, isn't it?"

Titus refused to allow her to administer the drug, but he did agree to do it himself. He asked the questions, too, which Black answered in a faint faraway voice, his eyes only half open. At the end of the interview, Titus looked as shaken as Petunia had ever seen him.

"Well, isn't that interesting?" Petunia said sarcastically, "Not only did Hogwarts have a DADA teacher with Voldemort playing piggyback, a basilisk in the basement, and a werewolf teaching this year, it's got the betrayer of Harry's parents pretending to be the pet of one of his friends and disporting himself in the Gryffindor dormitories! The safest place ever! What next?"

As punctuation to this pronouncement, Sirius groaned loudly.

"What are we going to do with him, Titus?" Petunia asked, lowering her voice. "This place is lousy with Dementors, all of them looking for him."

"I'd floo him to St. Mungo's if I thought he'd survive the trip," Titus said. "Frankly, I'm not sure he would; not just now. So we're going to have to clean him up as best we can, and treat him here. But Petunia-if the Dementors catch him with us, we're both in deep trouble."

"That's why I made you promise," Petunia said. "You can blame me if anyone asks. I just better hope my Patronus works."

"You can produce a Patronus?"

"Occasionally," Petunia said. "Lupin's been giving me lessons."

"I can't. Never learned that one."

"That's rather awkward, Titus," Petunia said. "But we'll cope. We'll just have to be careful."

That proved easier said than done. The cottage had some furnishings, including a bed, and the water and heat worked after a fashion, but Sirius was in sorry shape. They managed to bathe and de-flea him, but it involved shaving off his long hair and beard. He looked both younger and older once this was accomplished. Titus fetched some drugs from St. Mungo's, and Petunia brought some soup and Firewhiskey from the Manor.

The next few days were nightmarish. Black's fever mounted, and he was terribly restless, and subject to screaming nightmares and bouts of violent delirium. Titus struggled to keep him from hurting himself, and acquired a beautiful black eye in the process, along with an assortment of cuts and bruises. The healer was also looking worn out, and no wonder. Petunia was only able to help him part of the time; the rest of her time was spent searching for Peter Pettigrew.

For this she needed to get into the Gryffindor common room, not easily done. Of course, she had a nephew in Gryffindor; but what thirteen year old boy wanted to show his aunt his dormitory room? Not Harry, anyway. Dudley told her frankly that the dorms were often a sight no parent would want to see. He didn't elaborate, and Petunia didn't ask.

But Ron Weasley's brother Percy was the Gryffindor prefect, and so Petunia decided to concentrate on him. To judge from his mother's discourse, Percy was a fount of perfection; but Petunia found him intensely depressing. The boy had the intellect to be an outstanding achiever in life, and the temperament of a mid-level henchman of a third-world dictator. Brains not allied to imagination, intuitiveness, or humour amounted to very little, Petunia felt. He enjoyed enforcing the rules, because—well, because he didn't seem to have the ability to imagine doing anything else. Still-Gryffindor. There must be _something _in there under those layers of smug panic. Or so Petunia hoped. _I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Lily did, for me._

But despite her representations, Percy was not about to let her into the dormitories; it was against the rules, he said, and she wasn't really a teacher. He enjoyed asserting his petty authority with a prim pleasure, and Petunia clenched her teeth to prevent herself from hitting him with a nasty spell right between the eyes. That wouldn't get her the password, and that's what she needed.

And then she ran into Dobby in the halls. Dobby, who owed Harry a big favour. Dobby, who could move freely throughout the school. Maybe she had been over-thinking this.

"Dobby, do you want to help Harry?" Petunia asked him, having pulled him into an unused corridor.

"Yes! Of course Dobby would like to help Harry Potter! What can I do, Mistress? Please tell me!"

Petunia ended up telling him something like the truth. An agent of Lord Voldemort was living in the Gryffindor dormitory, she said, and she required his help to retrieve him. He was in the form of a pet rat. Could Dobby take a small cage, capture the rat and bring it to her? Dobby could and Dobby did. Petunia peered eagerly into the cage Dobby presented to her and saw a rather bedraggled rat, with the index finger on one of his claws missing.


	24. Chapter 24: SIRIUS TROUBLE

Justpucky: I can hear him saying it, too.

Archimedeus: Except that I'm not an American.

Katzztar: I think you mean Marcella (?) I don't really see Dumbledore as a villain; he's doing the best he can. He gave Sirius a chance in the past, but that incident convinced him that Sirius was unreliable, and thus he chose Snape to save at the time of the First War.

Guest: Re: Percy, I must respectfully disagree. I don't believe the twins 'bully' him-it's hard to bully a person with such high self-esteem. I'm sure Percy perceives their behaviour toward him as mere jealousy, which is partially right. They resent that their more unconventional talents aren't as valued as Percy's very conventional ones by their mother, the real head of the family. Undoubtedly, she does cause a good bit of trouble by making invidious comparisons, but she is sincerely concerned for the twins' futures. That's not all of it, of course; the twins don't resent Bill, who is just as great an achiever as Percy. It's Percy's attitude that galls them-they consider his superior attitude unjustified. Dumbledore is perhaps the person who understands Percy best, having himself been ashamed of and irritated by the foibles of his decent, modest family and considered himself to be superior to them when he, too, was a gifted and snotty adolescent. And as Petunia herself notes, she has had problems there, too; though not exactly the same ones. She felt she _was_ inferior to Lily and she bitterly resented that she lost out physically and magically by a mere roll of the genetic dice. (Not, of course, Lily's fault). Percy's attitude _is_ rather his fault, and thus the term 'bullying' does not compute. IMO, anyway.

Thanks very much for the reviews, everyone who did review. Much appreciated.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: SIRIUS TROUBLE

_In which Sirius Black gets the hearing he missed the first time around_.

Petunia inspected the sorry little rodent cowering in the cage, and resisted the impulse to shake it savagely. She managed to smile at Dobby, thank him profusely, and send him off happy. Then she wrapped a scarf around the cage and bore it off triumphantly to the Manor cottage.

Inside, Sirius Black was asleep-or perhaps comatose would be a better description-on the bed and the unfortunate Titus was dozing fitfully on a pull-out cot nearby. Petunia hated to disturb him; he was getting little enough sleep as it was. But she gave his shoulder a shake, and when he opened his eyes, put a finger to her lips and motioned him out of the room.

Rubbing his eyes, he followed her. "Why did you wake me up, Petunia?" he asked her, a rare whine in his voice. "It had better be important, this is the first sleep I've had in ages."

Petunia held up the cage and removed the scarf. The imprisoned rat blinked in the light.

Titus stared at the cage. He leaned in to look more closely at its inhabitant. "Oh, I see," he said. "The real culprit has deigned to pay us a visit, though I suspect not voluntarily; at least to judge by the cage. Not pleased to meet you, by the way," he said to the rat. To Petunia, he added, "How did you manage it?"

"I had some help," Petunia said. "One of the house elves obliged. Do you still have some veritaserum?"

"I do indeed," Titus said, turning away toward his portable healer's bag, which he had deposited at the side the fireplace.

The rat squealed loudly. "Shut up!" Petunia hissed at it. "We'll hear you out later. You'd better make it good, too, you miserable little turncoat! But we're going to make absolutely sure we're not listening to lies." The rat shivered and squealed and whimpered. Petunia was absolutely unmoved by its distress.

It took a good long time to coerce the truth out of Peter Pettigrew, but in the end they managed it; and his story matched Sirius's well enough, if you could see through the rat's desperate justifications and groveling excuses. It was exhausting, and both Petunia and Titus later agreed that Pettigrew was so completely loathsome that any extended contact with him was painful. _Oh, Lily. This creature caused your death. Why do I wish he were more impressive? What difference does it make? Why is it so unfair that a weakling like this traded his own miserable life for yours?_

They stowed Pettigrew back in his cage, and were forced to stun Sirius to prevent him from rodenticide, feeling decidedly guilty for doing so. Petunia, in fact, was initially in favour of allowing Sirius to have his way about it. Titus, however, pointed out that would preclude them from clearing Sirius's name, and she was reluctantly persuaded. Titus then sat down before the fire for a well-earned pint, and Petunia went in search of some tea.

It was a wild afternoon; Petunia could hear the wind and rain battering the front door. And then there was an odd noise from outside.

Petunia moved to listen at the door and in a flash of terror wished that she hadn't. A miasmic cold seemed to be filtering through the cracks of the door and into her bones. She knew instantly what was outside. "Titus!" she cried.

And then she was back outside her childhood home. The fire flared up into the black sky, burning steadily, greedily. Petunia could smell the-no, she couldn't-oh yes, she could, and dear God, she wished she couldn't. She could hear Lily's hiccoughing sobs nearby. She wanted to scream, but her throat was too dry, dry as the greasy dust that coated the air. Only an arid hacking wail came out.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Titus backing away and heard his voice in her ear when he admitted to her that he couldn't produce a Patronus. _It's up to you, Petunia, or it's the kiss for everybody. And I got Titus into this._

Petunia concentrated as hard as she could on a happy, Vernon-less memory: passing her magical equivalency. She remembered her surge of joy, the feeling of breaking through, finally, the barriers that had been holding her back, some of which-she had to admit-she herself had constructed. The fires receded, Lily's sobs died away. A ghost-like white horse erupted from the end of her wand and charged into the ranks of the Dementors-the door was now open. It wasn't a graceful beast, but Petunia felt like embracing it as it efficiently drove off the wraiths. _Thank God_.

She found Titus on the floor, his eyes glassy. Petunia wondered what Titus' worst memory was, and reminded herself never to ask him. Sirius was still comatose, she noted thankfully. _Better for him, undoubtedly._

She was catching her breath when a group of Aurors charged through the door. _Worse to bad._

Petunia may have thought Number Four, Privet Drive at the height of the Vernon years was a very bad place to be, but then she had not yet experienced the cells at Auror headquarters at Carrick Court in London. They had chilly whitewashed brick walls, barred windows, and heavy studded doors; Petunia lay back on the rock-hard bunk, wishing for death. She had no wand, and she had not seen hers since the Aurors had arrested her, Titus, and Sirius Black back at the Manor cottage.

Petunia had begged the Aurors to bring along the caged rat, but no such luck. In fact, she suspected that only the presence of Titus had prevented the Dementor's Kiss for both her and Sirius Black right then and there. She still wondered why it hadn't happened yet. If it wasn't for the boys, she wasn't sure that she wouldn't welcome it. She didn't know whether that attitude stemmed from the lingering effect of their encounter with the Dementors or not. _Probably. I haven't felt this badly in years_.

The cell door clanged, and two Aurors entered her cell. Petunia looked up at them apathetically, and didn't bother to rise. They pulled her into a sitting position. "Can you walk?" one of them asked her, not unkindly. Petunia tried to get to her feet, but her legs kept collapsing under her. In the end, the Aurors supported her on either side, so that she was able to navigate-if shakily-down the hallway.

The office they ushered her into contained three Aurors, none of whom she recognized, and three other people whom she did-Marcella Whiteoak, Hector Connelly, and Albus Dumbledore. When she saw them, she burst out: "It wasn't Titus's fault! I didn't tell him who he was treating when I asked him to come to the cottage!"

Dumbledore looked at her. "But _you_ knew who he was?"

"Of course I knew!" Petunia said, feeling suddenly defiant. "He attacked me and took my wand when I was cleaning the cottage. I took it back, though."

One of the Aurors, the one seated behind a desk, said, "Why didn't you notify us immediately, Mrs. Dursley? Or Headmaster Dumbledore? Surely you knew that you should do that?"

Petunia hesitated. "He told me that he was innocent. Sirius Black, I mean. That Peter Pettigrew was still alive. He begged me to listen, because he was sure that Pettigrew was at Hogwarts, and Harry-my nephew-was in danger because of it. He said that he had admitted that it was his fault that Voldemort killed my sister and brother-in-law, but he hadn't meant that he'd betrayed them. He'd persuaded them to accept Pettigrew as their secret-keeper instead of him. He didn't realize that that rat was a turncoat, and would betray them to Voldemort. I knew that Black had never had a trial—Professor Snape told me that, and Professor Lupin as well. I asked Titus to bring veritaserum with him, and persuaded him to give it to Black. Black was delirious by that time, so I felt we'd hear the real story. I wanted the truth."

She suddenly perceived a pensieve on the desk. "And I think that we did get it."

There was silence in the room. Petunia said pleadingly, "Will you go back to the cottage and get that rat? It's in a little cage."

Dumbledore said: "They already sent someone back after we talked to Titus. The cage was there, but it was empty."

Petunia swore bitterly. Dumbledore waited until she finished. Then he said, "We've also viewed Titus's interrogation of Sirius Black in the pensieve."

The head Auror spoke again: "It's not enough evidence for us to believe Black, I'm afraid. He could have faked it."

Petunia said: "I was sure he wasn't faking it. Titus didn't think so, either. Send someone back to the cottage and get the bottle in the pantry. The blue one, up on the shelf near the window. It should still be there, I think." The head Auror nodded to one of his subordinates, and the man got up and left.

Petunia sat in her chair and shivered. She asked: "Where are Titus and Sirius Black?"

The head Auror said: "We've already spoken to Hr. McWhirter, as Headmaster Dumbledore said. Sirius Black is in the infirmary."

So neither of them had been Kissed; not yet, anyway. Petunia felt a wave of utter relief that made her feel distinctly light-headed. Dumbledore, giving her a sideways look, asked for a cup of tea; and the other junior Auror brought some for everyone. She grasped the mug tightly, relishing the warmth of the liquid.

The wait for the return of the subordinate seemed endless, but eventually he returned, bearing the bottle Petunia had asked for. She let out a breath of relief. She was afraid that it might have been broken.

"What's in the bottle, Mrs. Dursley?" Dumbledore asked.

"What's in it? My memories from what happened after we retrieved Scabbers the Rat from the Gryffindor dormitory are in it. Shall we, then?"

The Head Auror uncorked the bottle, and used his wand to remove the memories. He then placed them carefully in the pensieve. All of them leant forward to touch the surface of the basin. They somersaulted through the water and landed on the floor of the cottage, and Petunia saw Titus and herself there; Sirius was lying in the bed, staring at the caged rat with a baleful glare. He was trying hard to sit up. Petunia saw herself go to him and try to get him anchored against some pillows. She managed it, and whispered to him not to make any sudden moves.

Titus cast a spell sealing the room and then Petunia opened the cage, shaking it to expel its contents. The desperate little rat half ran, half fell out of it, squealing with terror. Petunia noticed that it headed in the opposite direction from where Sirius Black lay.

Titus cast another spell, and this one caused the rat to halt in its tracks. Suddenly its outline changed, elongated, and that of a spasming rat became that of a balding little man. He was considerably shorter than Petunia, and he was missing one of his index fingers to the first joint. The watching Petunia saw Dumbledore start.

"Is this him?" the other Petunia asked Black.

"You hardly look any better than I do, Peter," Black said. "I suppose that should console me, but it doesn't."

"Hello, Sirius," the little man said to Black, trying unsuccessfully to smile. "It's been awhile."

"Clever little rodent, you are, Peter," Sirius said, his voice thick with loathing. "Not only did you commit a crime, you framed me nicely for it."  
Titus didn't wait to hear more and stunned Pettigrew, and with the other Petunia's help, administered the veritaserum to him.

Then came the interview: Titus asked drugged Pettigrew if he had been the secret-keeper for Lily and James Potter, and he admitted it, and that he had switched with Sirius Black, at the latter's suggestion. He was then asked about Voldemort, and Pettigrew, in a dull voice, confirmed that he had informed the Dark Lord as to the whereabouts of the Potters. Why had he done that, Titus asked, and Pettigrew admitted that he believed Voldemort was too strong to be opposed, and he had thus decided to become a Death Eater, as membership in the Order of the Phoenix had no future. The Dark Lord, he said, had instructed Pettigrew to frame Sirius, whom he had described as a blood traitor, and helped him with the planning.

Sirius Black, still barely able to sit up, growled deep in his throat. The other Petunia motioned him back with her wand, but his eyes were blazing with hatred, and he said: "Let me kill him. I've already served the damned sentence; now I want the satisfaction of doing the crime. I intend to enjoy every moment of it." He bared his teeth, and his eyes flashed yellow.

Titus stood up, looked at Sirius, and said mildly, "Wouldn't you prefer that he suffer the same fate you have the last eleven years? Why make it quick? Why sacrifice your future for revenge?"

"I don't give a tinker's damn anymore," Sirius said. "I just want to kill the contemptible little coward."

"Suits me, too," the other Petunia said, folding her arms. She was thinking of Lily and Voldemort's attempt to kill the infant Harry.

Titus gave her a reproachful glance. She met it defiantly. "Some people are really dangerous," she said. "Not because they're strong, but because they're very weak. I rather think Pettigrew qualifies."

"I won't allow that," Titus said flatly.

The other Petunia looked at Sirius and shrugged. She would not go against Titus in this, under these circumstances. "He'll stun you if you disagree," she told Sirius. "I won't stop him, either."

Sirius chose to be stunned. He moved so quickly that he got all the way across the room, nearly managed to get Pettigrew by the throat and had managed to bloody his nose before Titus was able to use his wand. _Some people just can't compromise. And I'm not at all sure whether I mean Sirius or Titus in this case._

The audience watched as Titus cast a spell to turn Pettigrew back into a rat. Then they withdrew upwards, and somersaulted backwards up to the surface and back into the Head Auror's office.

Petunia felt sick to think that Pettigrew was free again. _Sirius is innocent, yet he's the one who keeps getting punished._

The Head Auror spoke: "There appears to be enough evidence in this case to be placed before the Wizengamot at least. We'll see how soon we can muster a quorum. Mrs. Dursley? You and Hr. McWhirter will be required to stay with us until this matter is heard. We will find more comfortable quarters for you, of course."

_Oh, of course. Some place less like a prison, and more like a fancy prison. Any upgrade works for me.  
_

The fancy prison had rugs, beds and windows that weren't barred. The food was uninspired, but decent; still Petunia had no appetite. Sirius did not rate the fancy version, and was still held in the cells once he was freed from the infirmary. But it was an upgrade for him, too, she supposed. _At least there are no Dementors here. _ Neither Petunia nor Titus were allowed to visit him lest it affect their evidence, the Aurors told them.

But the worst thing was the effect of the whole affair on the unfortunate Titus. A storm broke over whether he should have reported Sirius to the authorities immediately, or whether the medical confidentiality rule protected him. Petunia was a ignorant Muggle-born, and therefore her behaviour was considered reasonably forgivable. But Titus was a pure-blood, and was thus expected to know better. For a day or two, his career hung in the balance; and then, to Petunia's profound relief, the ruling was that he had an absolute obligation to his patient. For a day or two, she was convinced that the Wizarding World was wiser than the Muggle one until Hector, on one of his visits, enlightened her on what really happened.

"Marcella pulled some strings on his behalf," he said. "She's angry at him for being so damn stupid, but blood is blood."

Petunia was astonished. "Are they related?"

"Oh, yes; Titus's mother was her first cousin," Hector said. "Marcella made him suffer a bit-revenge for his attitude towards Lockhart, I'm betting-but she hadn't the slightest intention of allowing any bunch of stupid politicians scupper his career. She knows where a lot of bodies are buried, let us say. Too much to make the Wizengamot take any chances."

The Wizengamot's charity did not, however, extend to Sirius Black. His hearing went ahead. Titus and Petunia both gave evidence, and then sat in the audience while Sirius himself testified. He looked rather better than Petunia remembered; he was dressed in clean clothing, his hair was growing out, and though he still looked thin, he no longer looked skeletal. He gave his evidence well enough, and seemed calm. _I'm betting they've tranquilized him; and it's not a bad idea._

The issue came down to whether the person masquerading as Peter Pettigrew was actually him. What proof had they of it? Petunia had been warned about this problem by the Aurors, and had provided them with the handkerchief she had mopped up Pettigrew with in the cottage when Black had bloodied his nose. They had looked at it, and at her, and asked her how it helped.

"I understand the Auror's department still has the part of Pettigrew's finger found at the site of his disappearance eleven years ago," Petunia said. "Have you ever heard of DNA testing?"

No, they hadn't. "Muggles have magic, too, of a sort," Petunia said. "I'll explain how it works."

The Aurors were sceptical, but willing to experiment. They agreed to send the finger part and the handkerchief out to a Muggle laboratory for DNA testing. And at Black's hearing, they offered the results: the finger and the blood on the handkerchief were from the same person. Sirius Black was acquitted.


	25. Chapter 25 DARKNESS VISIBLE

Susan M. M.: Re: smart girls allowing boys to win at checkers. Yup. Marigold meant well, but instead of telling Petunia to find someone who could appreciate her sarcasm, she tells her to dumb herself down to the level of a person who can't. We see how well _that_ works out, at least for Petunia. But yes, Marigold's generation believed in it devotedly, and Marigold herself is obviously a bit of an example of it. It worked well for her, thus the advice.

Moi: Good point.

Re: Guest: Yes, I'm aware I whiffed second year. Sorry about that. Not my favorite book. I may rewrite the relevant chapters.

Many thanks for the reviews, I'm often fascinated what works for the readers and what doesn't.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: DARKNESS VISIBLE

_In which Sirius Black replaces the problem of being incarcerated with the problem of being not incarcerated, and Petunia struggles to find a solution._

After Sirius's acquittal, the Aurors had processed him through their system, returned to him the pitiful cache of belongings that he had been originally arrested with, and unceremoniously dumped him on the street outside Carrick Court. A rag-tag group awaited him, consisting of his old friend, Remus Lupin; his cousin Andromeda Tonks, her husband Ted, and her daughter, Nymphadora; Minerva McGonagal; and Petunia Dursley and Titus McWhirter.

They escorted the bewildered Sirius back to his family townhouse, 12 Grimmauld Place, in London. Despite his disinheritance by his family, this piece of family real estate still belonged to him, apparently as a result of the wizarding equivalent of an entail. There was also an inheritance from a renegade uncle, a country estate in a state of complete dilapidation (fit only to be torn down, according to Pompey's report), and a small trust of entailed capital; it appeared at least that Sirius would not be penniless. Petunia was distressed to see the state of the townhouse; it was scarcely a cheerful spot. She had never visited an aristocratic pure-blood abode before, and after an encounter with the shrieking portrait of Sirius's mother, had reason to congratulate herself on the omission. She also began to understand him rather better. _I don't think Walburga Black was a nurturing soul. Just a random guess._

The Sirius Support Group divided their tasks equally, or tried to, but because Petunia was the only one without an outside job or a spouse, the lion's share just naturally seemed to fall to her. At first she didn't really mind that she had to escort Sirius to Gringotts to discuss financial ways and means with the Goblins. Following Marcella's example, she demanded an accounting for ever service they claimed that they rendered his estate during his sojourn in Azkaban, and received a sizable discount of their fees after a good deal of wrangling. Sirius was not the slightest bit interested; but Petunia found that she enjoyed it nearly as much as Marcella had on her previous Gringotts visit.

Petunia then analysed Sirius's income to determine whether he needed to rent out the townhouse to survive. It appeared not, but he _would _have to live within a budget. She organized that for him and set out spending limits, which he exceeded within the first five minutes. He seemed to do it deliberately, just to demonstrate to everyone that he had no restrictions on his behaviour now that he was out of Azkaban. Titus had warned her that he would find a lack of structure disorienting, but Petunia felt his actions smacked more of defiance. _I think I'm becoming a replacement for his mother, and as such, I'm already on his nerves, and vice versa. Just what I don't need: another rebellious adolescent_.

Speaking of Titus, Petunia urged Sirius to commence treatment at St. Mungo's for the effects of his incarceration. Sirius refused outright. He wasn't crazy, he said. Not now, and not ever, and he didn't need a mind healer, thank you very much. That was _his_ opinion, Petunia thought. Sirius seemed to have a host of self-destructive habits, each more distressing (and irritating) than the last. _Maybe Walburga Black was a screaming lunatic because he'd driven her mad. There are times when I consider it not at all impossible._

Titus, whom out of desperation she had taken to consulting on the sly, warned her that Sirius's behaviour was the equivalent of a toddler's testing of a parent, and Petunia could see this clearly enough; it didn't, however, make it any easier to bear. Especially because Sirius was not a toddler, but an alleged adult with a collection of not necessarily useful coping mechanisms all of which Petunia recognized very well from _her_ days of incarceration by the King of Passive-Aggression, Vernon Dursley.

She decided to concentrate on what she _could_ change for now. Petunia looked at the grimy state of Number 12, and decided to invest in a cleaning crew, and to discourage pilfering, supervised them closely. Sirius couldn't stand the noise and dust, he said, and went to stay with his cousin Andromeda Tonks for the duration. Petunia was rather relieved. She was able to complete the work far quicker that she would have had she had to monitor Sirius at the same time, and he took a good bit of monitoring, especially his moods.

The moods were nearly always negative ones, no surprise. Sirius still suffered from nightmares, depression, insomnia, and anxiety attacks. The physical symptoms of his incarceration were just as enduring; he had migraines, stomach pains, skin problems and chilblains, among other things. Under these circumstances, it was often very difficult to keep his mood elevated, especially as he refused medical help beyond routine visits to Madam Pomfrey.

Petunia did try. The boys helped; in their undemanding company, Sirius relaxed, and even intermittently cheered up. He talked with them about his school days incessantly, and like Lupin, hit all the wrong buttons, as far as Petunia was concerned. She had to ask him to include Dudley more and to de-emphasize the risk-taking in his past. Sirius would try hard for a bit, and then regress. Petunia, trying not to lose her temper, would ask him again, and again he would amend his behaviour-for awhile. But it was never permanent.

For that reason, and others, Petunia did not like to take the boys to Number 12; it was quite a trip during the school year, and even after it was cleaned up, the place had a depressing, funereal air. "Like the Dementors take a trip through it once per week, just to maintain the gloom," as Harry phrased it.

Sirius dealt with that problem characteristically. No, he didn't go out and rent himself a flat. That would have been logical; God forfend a wizard ever use logic. So one morning when Petunia passed the same cottage in which she and Titus had hidden Sirius while he was on the run, she noticed that it was occupied. When she opened the door and stepped in, wand at the ready, she encountered Sirius himself, sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea and eating what looked like stale biscuits.

"What on earth are you doing here, Sirius?" Petunia asked blankly.

Sirius looked guilty, but explained that he wanted to be closer to Hogwarts, where he could more easily visit the boys and Lupin.

"You could have taken a room at the pub, or asked me if you wanted to stay here," Petunia said, annoyed, looking about the untidy cottage.

"You've done a lot for me already," Sirius said, staring at his hands, "and I didn't like to ask you for more." _No, you just took it. And you didn't ask because you suspected I'd say no. _But Sirius's hangdog air made Petunia feel ashamed of her irritation, and she eventually agreed that he could stay in the cottage until the end of term, and pay her a peppercorn rent for the privilege, such as it was. But then, she insisted, he would have to find his own quarters. _Oh, be honest. At the end of term, I'll have to find new quarters for him, or he'll be here until Doomsday, and beyond._

By way of getting Sirius on his way, Petunia considered getting him a job; it would help distract him, she thought, and he'd meet some new people with whom he didn't have a past, which she felt was probably desirable. He had been a trainee Auror in the past, but it seemed that was impossible now. She talked to Dumbledore about a teaching position, aware that Sirius's demonstrative lunacy would be no bar at all to his enlistment in Dumbeldore's employment to judge by the Headmaster's hiring history; but he told her regretfully that there were no openings on the staff at present. She then decided that Ministry should employ Sirius and engaged Mr. Flywheel to threaten a lawsuit over wrongful imprisonment, not to mention a complete lack of due process. She had hoped that the Ministry would offer Sirus some sort of job in compensation, but alas, they decided upon a lump sum settlement instead. Petunia was exasperated. If there was anything Sirius didn't need right at the moment, it was more money. It would just encourage idleness on his part, and idleness encouraged him to obsess about his past, rather than plan for his future.

Then Petunia had the bright idea of seeking a girlfriend for Sirius; someone suitable to take him off her hands. _I don't like to phrase it like that, but that's what it's beginning to amount to._ There were very few candidates in Hogsmeade or on the Hogwarts staff, however. After due consideration, Petunia invited Septima Vector, who appeared to be the youngest staff member, over for Sunday tea with Sirius and the boys. Alas, Vector proved to be one of those people who lived so far into their own heads that nothing short of a mallet to the knee was likely to get their attention. She drank tea politely, but appeared to be computing logarithms in her head. Sirius was restive; he obviously resented her presence. "Why did you ask _her_?" he asked Petunia later. Petunia told him that she had wanted to discuss with Professor Vector the possibility of Dudley taking Arithmancy, and for once was glad that wizards seemed unable to process logic of any description, because Sirius appeared to accept this without comment.

Petunia next thought of Nymphadora Tonks, the young daughter of Sirius's cousin, Andromeda Tonks, nee Black. Tonks, as she preferred to be called, was probably too young, and rather too flighty. But she was pretty enough, and magical, and had the distinct advantage of being cheerful. She also had a sense of humour, an absolute requisite for dealing with Sirius. Not a perfect match, but a possible one, until it became obvious that she had an inexplicable—to Petunia-crush on Remus Lupin, of all people. Petunia could just imagine the scene when Tonks introduced _him_ to her parents. _Oh, God, I can remember my own father begging me not to marry Vernon Dursley. There must be a special circle of Hell designed for parents watching their children making horrifying mistakes. _ Not that Sirius was much less of a horrifying mistake than Lupin, she supposed, but at least the casting of silver bullets need not be involved.

Petunia remembered the posters she had seen in Sirius's old bedroom at 12 Grimmauld Place during her supervision of the cleaning crew: they had featured motorcycles and bikini'd girls, and he had favoured, she noted, buxom brunettes. Marigold Evans had used to laugh at one of her cousins, who showed up at every family event with a girlfriend; and though it was a different girl each time, they all looked exactly alike. "Men usually have a template of what attracts them," she had said to her daughters, shaking her head, "and it very seldom changes."

With this notion in mind, Petunia looked about Hogsmeade, and settled on Madame Rosmerta, the barmaid at the Three Broomsticks. A bit older than Sirius, perhaps, but having sampled Walburga Black's parenting style, Petunia concluded that perhaps he needed the maternal type. And indeed, when they lunched in the pub with the boys, Sirius showed more interest in Rosmerta than he had in Vector or Tonks. Or at least Petunia thought so, given his staring at Rosmerta's well-displayed décolletage. He responded, rather hesitantly at first, to her gentle teasing. For awhile, Petunia was quite hopeful that it might develop into a relationship, but though Sirius seemed to enjoy visiting the pub, and joking with Rosmerta, he appeared to make little progress beyond that.

Maybe I'm rushing it, Petunia thought despondently. _It's going to take time. The only problem with that is, Sirius is going to drive me as mad as his barking mother if this goes on much longer._

Petunia did try hard to be patient, but gradually she began to resent the suspension of her own life in favour of directing Sirius's. _And_ i_t's hard to always be the most cheerful person in the room, dammit. _ And equally gradually the rest of the Support Group simply faded away and let her do nearly all the work of supporting Sirius's spirits, and damn hard work it was. Requests for help were politely declined; everybody seemed unfortunately too busy right now, maybe in two weeks... Titus, who could have assisted her, was only able to help indirectly, because of Sirius's allergy to mind healers. Petunia grew exhausted and frustrated. Both she and Sirius might have muddled through to the end of the term, when she expected to regain _her_ freedom, but the boys were the rock on which they split at last.

Sirius had, to Petunia's deep disapproval, recovered the motorcycle he had owned before Azkaban. She tolerated it, simply because riding it was one of the few things that seemed to cheer him up. But she drew the line at the boys riding with him. He took chance after chance, he speeded; in short, she felt he was both an unsafe driver and a bad example to two impressionable thirteen-year-olds.

Sirius duly promised her that he would not give the boys rides on his motorcycle, but somehow Petunia was not the least bit surprised to come home from shopping one Saturday afternoon to find Sirius aloft on the bike, speeding happily along, Dudley riding pillion, and Harry riding piggy-back, and just barely hanging on, to Petunia's horror. Her furious denunciation of his manners and morals (and his inability to keep his promises) made Sirius abashed; the boys had begged him, he said, and he couldn't bear to say no.

"You had better learn to say no, or you can leave at any time," Petunia snapped, for once unafraid of his reaction. She was frightened, which made her angry.

So Sirius promised again. Petunia would not see the boys riding the bike again, he swore. That promise meant only that he and the boys moved the location of their motorcycle rides to the fields behind the gameskeeper's hut, where indeed Petunia would not have seen them but for a stray comment by the ever-indiscreet Hagrid, which alerted her to what was going on.

This time she slapped Sirius's face, wiping the would-be charming grin off it. "This isn't funny, Sirius!" she snarled, and swept off, with both boys' collars in her hands, and both boys inside their collars. Sirius sulked a good bit over the slap, and holed up with Lupin in his quarters at Hogwarts for the next few days. Apparently Lupin found him just as wearing as Petunia did close up, because Petunia received a serious apology from Sirius within the week. Lupin was his agent, because Petunia refused to see Sirius, and he confirmed that Sirius was very sorry, and realized what he owed Petunia. He couldn't eat nor sleep, Lupin said; Sirius wanted her forgiveness. Very reluctantly, Petunia agreed, but told Sirius that there could be no further motorcycle rides for the boys.

Sirius promised faithfully: no more rides. For the next few weeks, Petunia saw no evidence he had not kept his word. She was well aware that meant nothing, however, and something in the boys' manner warned her that all was not well. Well, that and Hermoine Granger, who indignantly told her that Sirius and boys and moved their riding activities to the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest and were using notice-me-not spells to conceal them. Did she know that Dudley had sprained his wrist when he had misjudged the landing just recently? _I do now, and I also know what white-hot rage feels like._

So when Sirius and the boys landed the motorcycle that day, they found Petunia waiting for them, very still, her gray cloak blending in so thoroughly with the dusk that they didn't see her immediately. They were laughing and chattering, but then Dudley caught sight of his mother. He fell silent. Harry was next; he stopped talking in mid-sentence. Sirius seemed confused at the boys' sudden silence, and then he saw Petunia, too.

He stood well outside the range of her slaps, and tried at first to brazen it out. He cheerfully greeted her, just as if he hadn't been caught breaking his word for the third straight time. Petunia did not answer. She merely stared at him. _Charm won't work this time, Sirius._

Sirius bit his lip, and tried telling her that her rules were ridiculous for growing boys; they needed to take few risks, have some fun. She was too controlling; it was her fault that they had to hide from her what they were doing. _Yes, you are the poster boy for risk-taking, Sirius Black, not a doubt of it_. She noted that both boys-much better acquainted with Petunia that Sirius was- tried to shush him, but he would not be quiet.

Baffled by her lack of reaction, Sirius then apologized, rather sulkily. _Gracious apology, indeed_.

"Aren't you going to _say_ anything?" Sirius said, almost pleading with her. Petunia looked at him consideringly, but did not respond.

Finally, to Dudley, Petunia said: "Has Madame Pomfrey seen your wrist?"

"No, Mum," he replied meekly.

"Go see her, then," Petunia said. "Now, if you please."

Dudley ran towards the Castle. He didn't look back. There was rather a long silence.

Then Petunia said: "Harry, aren't you going to miss curfew?"

"Yes, Tante."

"Go then. I'll talk to you and Dudley later."

Harry went. Petunia could tell Sirius was surprised at his acquiescence.

Just after Harry disappeared, Petunia produced her wand from her cloak in a lightning-quick movement and stunned the distracted Sirius. He fell to the ground. Petunia knelt beside him and stared into his unblinking eyes.

"Pompey is clearing the cottage of your belongings," she said, "and taking them back to Number Twelve. I've ordered him to seal the cottage magically and block the floo. You are no longer welcome on my property or in my home. When the boys are seventeen, you can contact them again, if you and they both want to. Until then, you are not welcome to visit them, and I have instructed the school staff to that end, including Professor Lupin. I warn you that I have developed an excellent system of informants at Hogwarts. I don't advise you to flout me further on this."

She stood up. "This is Scipio Africanus," she said, indicating a house elf standing at the edge of the clearing-Great-Aunt Cressida had a weakness for the names of Roman generals. The elf was Pompey's second in command. "He will chaperon you here until the spell wears off. He is then going to escort you to Professor Lupin's quarters for the night. No, you don't get a choice. If you wish, you can then use the floo to go back to London in the morning.

Sirius, with an almost superhuman effort, whimpered.

"Be thankful I don't know how to cast an Unforgivable, Sirius. If I did, you would have been in much worse trouble. I won't have you lying to me or teaching my children to lie to me. Dudley told me he'd sprained that wrist at Quidditch."

She motioned Scipio forward, and murmured, "Give me twenty minutes." He nodded. She turned into the dusk and did not look back.


	26. Chapter 26:THE DEMONS FILL YOU WITH FEAR

Moi: Gave you a shout-out in this chapter; see if you can spot it. Yes, Petunia is turning into a bit of a _femme formidable_, isn't she? I always hoped she would.

Wow, quite a few reviews! I was surprised (but happy) that most of you supported Petunia. Didn't really expect that. Many thanks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: THE DEMONS FILL YOU WITH FEAR

_In which Sirius musters a counter-attack, and Petunia is unmoved_.

The storm broke the next morning. Petunia had been up late; she had a serious conversation with the boys, borrowing McGonagall's office for the purpose. It was, as she anticipated, difficult. Both of them defended Sirius; it wasn't really his fault, Mum, we asked him and asked him to ride the motorcycle, and you know he doesn't mean any harm, Tante, don't you?

"Sirius may not mean any harm, but he often causes it, Harry," Petunia said. "I know you're fond of him; so am I, at times, but you have to remember, he did eleven years in Azkaban because of impulsiveness. I can see one thing about his behaviour since he was released, and that is that he hasn't learned a single earthly thing by it. People who don't learn by experience are really dangerous because they keep repeating the same mistakes. I don't want you or Dudley caught in the cross-fire, the way your parents were, Harry."

"But Sirius didn't kill-"

"No, he didn't, but his decision about changing the secret keeper probably doomed them. Yes, yes; I know he didn't mean any harm. He almost never does; but I know of at least one case where he did mean harm, and nearly landed an innocent man - other than himself, I mean - in Azkaban. He's smart, and he's charming, but his judgment is very poor, and he doesn't think things out."

_I haven't convinced them, I can tell. _ "Do you know why else I was angry at Sirius?"

They shook their heads.

"Because he treated me like somebody whose opinions didn't matter, someone not to be taken seriously. I'd been through that once before. I tolerated it then. But I never will again. Never. And he refused to understand that."

She saw understanding on the boys' faces and said no more.

When Petunia came down for breakfast the next morning, there were no less than ten owls awaiting her. One each from Professors Lupin, McGonagall, and Sprout; one from Albus Dumbledore; one from Andromeda Tonks (a howler); and at least five from Sirius. It was obvious that Sirius had been very busy since his expulsion from the Manor grounds, soliciting outside support in what was shaping up as a battle. _I've been embattled before, 'so once more unto the breach dear friends; once more.'_

The messages from Professors Sprout and McGonagall were more in sorrow than in anger; hadn't she been really rather hard on poor old Sirius, and didn't she realize how vulnerable he was? _Yes, he's very vulnerable, and he's an accident in the making. My vulnerability doesn't seem to matter, though._ Dumbledore suggested that perhaps she had over-reacted. _Well, given that the Headmaster gave Sirius detention for attempted murder, that one doesn't particularly surprise me. _Professor Lupin was very disappointed, he had thought better of her. _You forgave Sirius for the Whomping Willow incident, and don't tell me he didn't disappoint you then. I'm not going to take you as a model, either, so get over it. _ Andromeda Tonks' howler denounced her as a hard-hearted bitch. _I notice that the level of indignation in Sirius's supporters increases in ratio to the possibility of Sirius moving in with them. She must be panicking indeed._

The messages borne by Sirius's five owls met her expectations. The first one was angry, the second disappointed, the third apologetic, the fourth one, demanding, and the fifth one rounded out to angry again.

Petunia surprised herself by not feeling particularly upset. _I expected this, didn't I? Not perhaps so quickly, but I did expect Sirius to counter-attack._ But she did not answer any of the owls, and she felt that she did need some support, or at least, some disinterested feedback. So she floo'd to St. Mungo's to see if Sirius had attempted to recruit Titus, the last remaining member of the Sirius Support Group, and the only one not represented by an owl. As it turned out, he hadn't. _Interesting_.

She told the whole story to Marcella, Hector and Titus, backing it up with pensieve memories to prove that she had not exaggerated.

"Did you expect gratitude from him, Petunia?" Titus asked her.

"Why not? When the three of you helped me, I was damned grateful."

"Your trouble was situational, mostly," Titus said. "I rather think Sirius's problems are more deep-rooted. That's a guess, of course, since he won't submit to an assessment. But whatever the problem is, he has a hard time focusing on problems outside his own."

"Tell me about it," Petunia muttered.

"From what I've seen, Titus," Marcella said, "you're right; but I don't know how we can help him if he won't be helped."

"If he _can _be helped," Petunia muttered again. "It appears that he's expecting me to give into peer pressure," she added.

Hector raised his brows, and asked: "And will you?"

"I will not." Petunia said, her mouth set. "I'm through with that." _I've thrown that into the water with the whale._

"Well, then, you can't allow him to undermine your relationship with the boys," Marcella said. "And that's definitely what he's trying to do, consciously or not."

"But you know what my weak spot is in this, Marcella," Petunia said. "You were with me when we read my sister's and brother-in-law's wills."

Marcella nodded. "Yes, I do know. Sirius is actually Harry's guardian by the terms of those wills. You're the alternate in your sister's will, but not in James Potter's."

"That's going to come up," Petunia sighed. "You can bet on it. I have a feeling I had better prepare for it."

And she was right; it did.

When she returned home, there were more owls; another set from Sirius, whose messages she didn't bother to read; and yet another one from Albus Dumbledore suggesting that he arbitrate a meeting between her and Sirius on the subject of the boys.

Petunia felt she couldn't ignore this plea, but she didn't expect too much. She wasn't at all surprised to see that Lupin, McGonagall and Andromeda Tonks were also present. Luckily, she wasn't alone, either; both Hector and Titus accompanied her. (Marcella's presence was felt to be overkill, especially as she was not a fan of Sirius.) Sirius bristled when he caught sight of them. He, Dumbledore and the rest were seated around a table in Dumbledore's office; Sirius leaped to his feet.

"I won't stay if they do!" he cried, indicating Hector and Titus.

"Goodbye, then," Petunia said calmly and seated herself at the table. Hector and Titus sat down on either side of her.

Sirius remained standing, though he didn't leave. "I don't want mind healers here!" he shouted.

"They are not here as mind healers," Petunia said, not raising her voice. "They're here as friends of mine. You have seconds, I see, why can't I?"

"Indeed, Sirius," Dumbledore said, "Mrs. Dursley has a point. I think we'll allow Hr. Connelly and Hr. McWhirter to join us, unless you wish Remus, Minerva and Andromeda to leave as well?"

No, Sirius did not want that, he needed his support network as much as Petunia did hers; so he accepted the healers' presence, though with obvious ill-grace.

"Now," said Dumbledore, "I understand that you and Mrs. Dursley have had a difference of opinion."

Petunia nearly laughed aloud at the mildness of this description. "You could say that," she agreed.

"Sirius tells us that because he allowed Harry and Dudley to ride on his motorbike, you struck him, stunned him, threatened him with an Unforgiveable, and evicted him from lodgings for which he was paying proper rent."

"Is that all he told you?" Petunia asked.

"There's more?"

"Well, what do you think, Headmaster? I'll admit that I struck him. I'll admit that I told him that if I could cast an Unforgivable-which I can't-he'd have been in trouble. I'll admit that I evicted him, though I have to say his rent was always late. Not because he was unwilling to pay it, mind you, but because he finds details rather difficult to remember." She looked directly at Sirius as she spoke the last words and he had the grace to blush.

"What Sirius didn't tell you is that he promised not to allow the boys on his motorbike after the first time I caught them riding it with him under very unsafe conditions. He promised. I caught them again, this time trying the hide the fact that they were riding it from me with Sirius's connivance. That's when I struck him, which I think Professor Lupin can attest to. He promised never to do it again. On the third occasion I caught them doing the exact same thing, I stunned him, threatened him with the Unforgivable which I don't know how to cast and yes, I evicted him."

Andromeda Tonks said, "You struck him? In front of the boys? Don't you think that you should apologize to him for that?"

Petunia felt the sudden surge of white-hot rage again. "Not only won't I apologize for hitting him," she said tightly, "I'd belt him again should I ever get the opportunity." Sirius abruptly pushed his chair away from the table.

"I apologized to _you_," Sirius said. He sounded hurt.

"Yes, you did. Each and every time. And then you did it again."

"I was careful with the boys! They weren't in any danger!"

"Your opinion, not mine. Were I to apologize to you, I'd have to mean it; and I'm _not_ sorry. You deserved it."

"That's not fair, Petunia! I love the boys! I'd never try to hurt them!"

Petunia shook her head. She suddenly felt very tired. She said, to the group rather than to Sirius: "He just doesn't understand. I've tried explaining it to him too many times to count."

Hector said: "Petunia's account is correct, by the way. We've consulted her memories."

"Well, Sirius," Dumbledore said, "it appears that Mrs. Dursley's position, if rather extreme, is not unwarranted. What have you to say?"

Sirius's head was bowed. He said to his hands, "I'll never do it again."

"I already gave you three chances, Sirius," Petunia said. "I'm sorry, I just don't believe you. When you make the promises, I think you do intend to keep them. But you can't seem to follow through. I'm not going to take any further chances."

"Are you saying I can't see Harry anymore?" Sirius asked. There was something in his voice that caught at Petunia's heart despite her resolve. _This is so very hard. Harder than I ever imagined_.

"When he's seventeen, certainly. He'll be an adult then and can make his own choices. He's very fond of you, and will undoubtedly want to see you then." _I foresee sleepless nights for me when that happens, too. Oh, joy._

"That's four years away!" Sirius cried.

There was a silence. Then Petunia said, as gently as she could: "Sirius, you need to think about your own life and your own future. Maybe you should train in a profession or do some travelling. You could rebuild your family's Manor. You could get some more education. Do something for you. I think it would do you a world of good."

"Couldn't-couldn't I come for dinner sometime, just to see the boys?"

"No."

"Why not?" Sirius was angry again.

"There's the question of you lying to me and encouraging the boys to do the same. Maybe I can't cast an Unforgivable, not yet, but I've certainly received one." Petunia felt her anger scald her again, and with some difficulty, she suppressed it.

"You certainly _are_ a bitch, Petunia," Sirius said. "Lily always said you were."

"That's enough," Titus said, an edge to his voice.

Without looking at him, Petunia laid a hand on his arm. To Sirius, she said: "I'm sure Lily did say something like that, and you know something, Sirius? She was absolutely right. Take it as a warning. But I refuse to descend to name-calling here. If you have a point, make it."

But Sirius had no point to make. "It's not fair!" he cried.

Petunia stared at him. _He spent eleven years in Azkaban for something he didn't do, and he thinks life is fair? I give up._

Dumbledore said, "Are there any circumstances under which you would reconsider, Mrs. Dursley?"

Petunia opened her mouth to say no, and then hesitated. "If Sirius would agree to a mind-healing assessment at St. Mungo's and any recommended treatment, yes; then I would reconsider."

Sirius jumped to his feet. "I'm _not_ crazy! You're trying to have me locked away again!"

Petunia knew that fear; she had had it herself. "You might get some help there, Sirius. You need it. I tried to help you, but I've concluded that I'm not qualified enough to do so."

"They're _your_ friends," Sirius said, indicating Hector and Titus. "They wouldn't be fair to me!"

"Maybe I should remind you that Titus has already risked his career to help you," Petunia said, angry now. "He _is _your friend, or at least, _he's _behaved like it." Sirius caught the rebuke in her voice, and winced.

After a rather long silence, Sirius said hoarsely, "I'm Harry's godfather. And I know James left his guardianship to me. You can't make conditions. In fact, I should making the conditions under which _you_ see him."

"I have custody and guardianship in the Muggle courts," Petunia said, unmoved. "And I took the precaution of having it confirmed in the Wizarding courts when I passed my equivalency. You were in Azkaban, so it went through unopposed."

"I'll apply to have that overturned," Sirius snapped. _Oh, lovely. He's finally found something to do with his time._

"You do that," Petunia said. _I've had enough of this_.

"In the meantime, Mrs. Dursley," Dumbledore said, "Sirius still wants to see the boys. He has no actual right in Dudley's case, of course, and your veto would apply there; but in Harry's, I think he should be able to see him in the interim, if this matter does go to court."

Sirius nodded eagerly.

"Very well," Petunia said coolly. "He can visit Harry at Mayhew Manor, on Sundays for lunch."

Sirius looked triumphant, but he was much less triumphant when he arrived that Sunday to discover that Hector and not Petunia would supervise the visits. Dudley was present too, mainly because Harry had refused the visits outright unless Dudley was included. This rather surprised Petunia, but then she knew that the boys were a team. She supposed that even the generally self-sufficient Harry needed a back-up and sounding board on occasion. Petunia and the mind-healing team decided that as Titus seemed to be anathema to Sirius, Hector was indicated; not than Hector seemed to make him any happier. But Hector's cheerful, outgoing personality might appeal to Sirius more, or so they hoped.

The first visit took place that Sunday. The boys seemed anxious both beforehand and afterwards. Petunia made a point of not asking what happened, but they told her anyway. Hector, who stayed for tea, looked thoughtful.

"Sirius was really angry," Dudley said. "He wanted to know where you were." _He was looking forward to rubbing in it, no doubt. And I'm sure he didn't want a mind healer there._

She was right. "Then he started in about mind healers," Harry said. "He said they were witch doctors, or something."

"Figuratively as well as literally," Petunia said, amused.

"Yes," said Hector, "and I shrink heads in my spare time."

Petunia smiled. "Remind me to direct you to some possible additions to your collection," she said, and the boys laughed.

"We'll draw you a map to the dungeons," Harry said, looking more cheerful.

"And the caretaker's office," said Dudley.

"And Trelawney's lair!" They went on with increasingly absurd suggestions, and seemed to forget the visit for a bit. But after they floo'd back to the Castle, Petunia turned to Hector with raised brows.

He looked grave. "He's not in good shape, Petunia. He doesn't seem to have much of a grip on his emotions, either."

Petunia felt her heart sink. "What do you think it is?"

"No way of telling without closer inspection; but eleven years of Dementors would have driven most men mad."

Petunia sat down. Hector said: "He was counting on you being there, I think," Hector said.

"He wants to talk me back into doing all his dirty work," Petunia said, sighing. "Not that I minded, really, but he wouldn't take any interest in learning to do it for himself. I could see that it was going to be never ending." Hector gave her an odd look, which she couldn't interpret, and said no more.

Sirius, in fact, was a never ending problem in any case. At the next lunch, he was very difficult: sullen and aggressive – Hector dubbed it 'acting out' - and the boys were upset. "Why is he doing that?" Petunia asked, exasperated.

"Because he's hoping I'll refuse to supervise, and you'll have to do it," Hector said. "He's not subtle."

Things settled down to a slow simmer until one Sunday when Hector was unavailable, and Titus had to be substituted. Sirius refused outright to tolerate him as supervisor, so Titus invited him – politely, he said; rudely, according to Sirius – to leave.

The boys told her excitedly that they nearly came to blows, and it ended with Sirius transforming into his animagus form and bounding out of the room, and indeed the house.

That was the last supervised visit. It occurred to Petunia that by making supervision impossible, Sirius had ensured that the wizarding court would probably not order it. _There's a method in his madness; he's crazy, but not stupid._

She looked forward to the guardianship hearing not at all. Sirius, too, wasn't enthused, to judge by the stream of people whose visits she had to endure, all of them pleading his case for an out-of-court agreement. Professors McGonagall and Sprout thought that he had learned his lesson. _He's incapable of that, which is exactly the problem_. Andromeda Tonks was at first stiff with Petunia, but after a cup of tea, and a discreet shot of Firewhiskey, she admitted that Sirius could be very difficult, and that she understood Petunia's problems with him. "But he's a good person at heart," she insisted. "And he's had some terrible luck." Petunia couldn't disagree with either contention. _I can't fix him, though; even magic can't cure some things._

It was Lupin, though, that angered her the most. If anyone did, he knew the results of Sirius's impulsiveness. Yet he told her that he intended to testify at the hearing on Sirius's behalf.

"Sirius is my friend," Lupin said, by way of explanation. "Perhaps my only one."

"That's not true: Lily and James were also your friends," Petunia said. "And I'm asking you to make a decision in the best interests of their only child. Perhaps I should also point out to you that you are not a Hufflepuff. You're a Gryffindor, so it's courage before loyalty, is it not? Which is exactly what Sirius exercised when he excluded you from the decision to change the secret-keeper. I shouldn't think you are obliged to be more loyal to him than he was to you."

Lupin's face twisted. "You hit hard, Mrs. Dursley."

Petunia stared back at him, unmoved at his distress. "Yes I do. I've been through this before, remember? More than once. You get better at cold-bloodedness with practice. You can tell Sirius that. Do you think he'd stand up to cross-examination on the stand? If so, I can only say that you're an optimist."

Lupin was silent a moment, and then said: "He's only doing this because you are leaving him no other choice."

"I suppose not," Petunia said. "Contrition didn't work. Belittling my position didn't work. Blaming me for everything didn't work. Promises of reform didn't work. 'I'm-going-to-drink-myself-to-death' threats – yes, I've heard about those - didn't work. So yes, aggression is next on the list." _Of course, he could wait the four years, but apparently that's a non-starter._

As the date for the hearing approached, Sirius seemed to grow increasingly frantic. Petunia didn't like to think about what additional stress would do to his already unstable personality. Therefore, she was very unhappy to encounter Sirius just outside Hogsmeade, on her way home. She knew that he had a room at the Three Broomsticks, but she scheduled her visits to the village early in the day, hoping to avoid him. Sirius had obviously caught on to this.

She had her wand in her hand in no time. Sirius bristled when he saw it, but he reigned himself in. "I don't mean to hurt you, Petunia," he said indignantly.

"That's a change," Petunia muttered. Sirius looked hurt.

Petunia said, in a milder tone: "We've already discussed this _ad nauseum, _Sirius. You know my position, and I know yours. Let's let someone else make the decision, and live with it."

"I've got a suggestion that will settle everything," Sirius said eagerly.

"I'm listening," Petunia said wearily. _I might as well humour him_.

"We could get married," Sirius said, with an ingenious smile.


	27. Chapter 27: TRUE LIES

Cherry, Lily and Dympthna: Glad you liked it.

Katzztar: Sirius is not well enough to get married, but he does need structure, and he thinks Petunia will supply it; not seeing his effect on her, which is to destroy all the gains she has made.

Susan M. M.: Yes, Vernon taught Petunia well, if negatively.

Katconan: Petunia knows it's a mistake, alright.

Moi: As usual, your reviews are full of interesting suggestions, and I used one – Snape's in this chapter.

Sarah-Rose: I'm damned sorry to hear it, and hope you coldcock (literally) your version of Vernon/Sirius.

Mother of Tears: Hope Snape's role in this chapter is sufficient for you! He's having a good time for once.

MagicalGuest: Petunia generally uses more contractions...but I liked the magical divorce idea a lot...

Many thanks to all who reviewed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: TRUE LIES

_In which Petunia gives Sirius the word, and Andromeda tries to help._

"We could fly to the moon on gossamer wings, too; but I wouldn't recommend it," Petunia said, almost automatically. _Wait a minute, what the hell did he just say?_

Sirius looked puzzled. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"I could ask you the same question." _My God, he's finally gone radio rental, and that's for sure_.

"I said I wanted to marry you!" Sirius said. _No error, then_.

"Wizarding culture escapes me quite frequently, Sirius. Do you usually ask people you're suing in court to marry you?" _Play for time, my girl, you're in trouble here_.

Sirius muttered in frustration, "I knew I was going about this the wrong way, but I couldn't remember how the Muggles do it, if I ever knew. My family were purebloods, so it was always negotiations, dowries, and alliances. You don't have any parents, so I can't ask them, and my parents disowned me, and are dead anyway." _You could have asked Charity Burbage, Sirius, but she might have misinterpreted it. But don't say that; think before you open your mouth, Petunia, for a change. You're alone with a highly unstable but gifted wizard with whom you've had a long, acrimonious quarrel. Better not the cut direct._

"If negotiations are in order, I have to say I don't want to marry a wizard that's younger than I am, and I'm years older than you," she said calmly, instead of telling Sirius that it would be a cold day in Hades before she'd even consider it. _Discretion, please_,_ at least until someone else comes along this path and rescues me from this situation._

Unfortunately, when they compared birthdates, it turned out that they were both born the same year, Petunia in January, and Sirius in October. _Damn, I was sure I was a lot older than him than that, but obviously not chronologically. We're basically the same age, though Sirius is half his actual age emotionally and I'm twice mine._

"I'm sure you want children," Petunia tried out a new line, "and I wouldn't be able to give them to you; I've had several miscarriages, and the doctors told me not to try again." _In fact, I took my own precautions to prevent further children by Vernon, and the doctors didn't say a word about future attempts. But I'm sure that Sirius would want children and it might - hopefully - discourage him_.

No such luck. "Not a problem," Sirius said, bouncing on his heels - in fact, he seemed unusually lively today. "I'll adopt Dudley; and Harry, too for that matter." _You say that now, but it would get to be more and more of a problem, or I much mistake the matter_.

"I happen to have more property than you," Petunia said, rather desperately. Certainly she knew the respective values of their estates better than anyone. "I don't know what the wizarding law is on that, but I'm not prepared to give up any control of it."

"That's fine," Sirius said. "I'll sign any waiver on that, if you want."

Petunia was silenced. Sirius said, "My turn, then? I don't like your name."

"Which one?" Petunia asked, surprised.

"Your first name," Sirius said.

_Take a number, then, the only one who ever liked it was my mother. And alas, she had the choice. _"What's your middle name?" Sirius asked her. When Petunia admitted it was Angharad, he brightened. "I like that; it sounds like a Druid priestess."

He obviously intended for her to be flattered; but Petunia raised her brows. "I'm not interested in human sacrifices, Sirius. You should be glad; I doubt you'd like the Wicker Man. And as to that, _your_ given name is nothing to write home about."

Sirius looked hurt. "Sirius? You don't think it suits me?" he asked.

Petunia laughed, in spite of everything. "Do _you_? Are you a serious soul?"

Sirius grinned and barked softly. There were times Petunia could forgive him almost anything. Now she understood why Lupin had done so after the incident in which Snape had nearly been bitten. But it didn't blind her to his numerous faults and his often horrifying neediness. Sirius was a roller-coaster of emotions, and Petunia felt that he was looking for nanny, not a wife. _I've got two children already. I love them dearly, but I'm not taking on Sirius as a third. Not to mention his bad example to the two I've got._

But Sirius did have charm, and when he chose to exercise it, he could be extremely engaging. Charm was a quality Petunia distrusted. She had been very envious, in her youth, of girls who had it, like Lily. Charm would have helped her in her gangly, clumsy adolescence, but she had not a particle of it. But on some level, she considered it an unearned advantage. _And it hasn't served him well – not holding him responsible for his own actions has done him no favours. None at all._

Sirius's middle name turned out to be Orion, of all things. "You should talk! At least I've got _one_ decent one!" Petunia said. Sirius looked abashed.

Sirius had other complaints, too. He didn't like her penchant for mind healers, for one thing. They peddled nothing but snake oil, he said, and she ought not to listen to them at all. Once they were married, she would have to cut off all connection with St. Mungo's. This was not negotiatable, and he would hear no more arguments about it.

Petunia bit her lip and wished to God that _someone_ would come down the path.

They walked towards the Manor in silence. Sirius seemed distracted and Petunia wondered how earth she had managed to get herself into this. _I meant well, and he means well, and a proper mess the two of us have made of it between us. _She felt nearly as despondent as Sirius usually was. The spring had been a cold one; the grey day matched her mood, and she shivered.

And then, gliding down the path from the other direction, she saw Severus Snape. _I'd definitely prefer Minerva McGonagall, but beggars can't be choosers, and I'm definitely rattling my cup here._

The Hogwarts staff had declared neutrality on the question of the hearing, with the exception of Lupin (who was testifying on behalf of Sirius), and Snape (who had agreed to testify on behalf of Petunia). Petunia was dubious about calling Snape to testify since he despised both her and Harry almost as much as he loathed Sirius. But her counsel had insisted, to show a long-standing history of reckless behaviour on Sirius's part. Sirius must know this, too; because of the exchange of witness lists. That is, if he even appreciated the implications of it. With Sirius, you could never be sure of that.

"Professor Snape!" Petunia said brightly, "How nice to see you!"

Snape blinked. He seemed to notice them for the first time. "Indeed," he said, taking in Sirius and Petunia. "I'm surprised to see both of you here."

"I'm sure you are," Petunia said, with a very uncharacteristic chattiness. "Oh, going to Hogsmeade, are you?"

"Uh, well..."

"Maybe you'd like to walk with us," Petunia interjected, taking his arm, and winking at him.

"Something in your eye, Mrs. Dursley?" Snape asked. There was an undercurrent in his voice which told Petunia that he knew exactly what was going on. _Damn you to hell and back again, stop smirking._

"No," Petunia said, and pinched his arm, hard.

Snape winced slightly, but he showed no other sign. He gave her a hard bright-eyed look. _This may develop into a contest between Snape and Sirius on who gets to curse me first._

Petunia managed to slip aside and put Snape in the middle, between her and the sulking Sirius. Snape, a look of unholy glee in his eyes, seemed to perceive her embarrassment, because he kept slipping to the side himself and placing her back in the middle beside Sirius. _I could Imperius him here and now, but alas, I still don't know how. I think I had better learn the Unforgiveables, and soon. And I'm pretty sure I know who I'll practice them on._

Sirius was glaring at Snape, who seemed to be having a marvelous time, though he maintained his poker face. "Don't let us keep you," he said to Snape, an edge in his voice.

"Oh, I'm just out for a walk," Snape replied airily.

"Good," Petunia said desperately, "I wanted to talk to you about Dudley's Potions marks. Have you a moment?"

Sirius gave her a wounded look, which she ignored; Snape observing this, said with highly unusual affability that he had all the time in the world.

Petunia, steering the two men towards the Manor, burst into a voluble explanation – "Dudley tells me that he's having a real problem with mutable potions, I was wondering if you could give him a little extra help with them...oh, yes, if you were to suggest some extra books, I'll be sure to get them for him...is there something else? Well, if you had room for him in your remedial tutorials, that would help him so much...you're really too kind." _I can't believe I'm saying this to Snape. I'll bet he can't believe it, either._

She quick-marched them home, gabbling constantly. Poor Sirius seemed quite unable to get in a word edgewise, and Snape just listened, bit his lip occasionally, and inserted a monosyllable here and there. He seemed always just about to burst into laughter, but never quite. _I wonder if he's biting his tongue, too. I bloody hope so, damn you, and I hope it hurts a lot, you smug git._

When they reached the Manor, she whipped the iron gate open and slipped inside, clanging it shut before Sirius could get to it.

"Thank you for your time, Professor Snape," she said to Snape, who smirked. "See you in court next week, Sirius," she added, as she opened the door to the Manor. _And if that isn't an answer to your question, you weren't attending._

It appeared that Sirius still wasn't sure, because the next day she had a visit from Andromeda Tonks, who appeared on her downstep looking distinctly harried.

"Sirius wants to know if-" she faltered, after Petunia opened the door.

"If what?" Petunia asked, though she knew.

"If you accepted his proposal," Andromeda said. She appeared as though she longed to be elsewhere, and Petunia could hardly reproach her for that.

"Where did he get the idea?" Petunia asked her. "From you?"

Andromeda admitted it. _Well, how can I blame her? I tried the same damn thing; and I gave no more thought of the consequences to my targets than she did._

"Come in, please, I want to talk to you," Petunia said, sighing.

Over some tea, Andromeda admitted to growing more and more concerned over Sirius. He was now spending even more time with her family; her husband, it transpired, was less than patient about it. "In fact, Sirius is driving him crazy."

"I know that feeling," Petunia said, nodding. She liked Ted Tonks, who seemed to her to be a pleasant, easy-going man. If he was at the end of his patience, Sirius was obviously being Sirius.

"Yes, well..." Andromeda trailed off, fidgeting nervously.

"Tell me something," Petunia asked her. "Was he like this prior to Azkaban?"  
"Well, Bella and I were older, and Narcissa younger than he was, and after he was sorted in Gryffindor, we didn't see that much of him. My aunt and uncle just had no control over him; they favoured Reg..."

"Reg?"

"His younger brother."

Petunia was astonished. "I didn't know he had any siblings...he's never mentioned any."

"Regulus joined the Death Eaters," Andromeda said soberly. "I don't know exactly what happened, but he simply disappeared. Lucius Malfoy tried to find out what became of him, and let's say discreetly, he was in a position to do so. But he never could." She shook her head. "The Blacks are very inbred. That's why I refused to marry a pureblood myself. My aunt had a breakdown when Regulus disappeared, I rather think, though I was estranged from them by that time. He was definitely her favourite of the two boys."

"I see," Petunia said. Walburga's shrieks suddenly became more explicable.

"Sirius attached himself to James Potter and his family as a substitute, and it worked for awhile. I saw him more often after I married; he was the only member of my family who didn't disown me at the time. Whether there was a problem then, I don't really remember. He was very lively and charming, but he could go into a funk in no time flat; it could take only a word or a look."

Petunia nodded. She had wondered if Sirius's symptoms predated Azkaban. It appeared that they had, if not with the same intensity.

"You're his closest relation, aren't you?" Petunia asked her.

Andromeda supposed that she was. "Along with Bella and Narcissa, yes; but neither of them would lift a finger to help Sirius."

"He does need some help, Andromeda, you know that. Are you prepared to get him to go to St. Mungo's instead of pursuing this stupid lawsuit?"

Andromeda looked troubled. "Against his will?"

"That's the only way he'll go," Petunia said. "And we both know it."

Andromeda sighed in agreement. "What would I have to do?"

Petunia explained to her the basics of applying for legal guardianship of an adult. She had done it herself for Vernon, and though she wasn't sure it went the same way in the wizarding world, there must be some system that would allow for it.

"It's just until he's well," Petunia said, though in fact she wasn't sure a full recovery was even possible.

"He'd never forgive me," Andromeda whispered. "And so many people have betrayed him."

"People have disappointed him, certainly," Petunia responded, unwilling to encourage this line of thought. "But only one really betrayed him, and that was from fear and weakness."

"Isn't that what I'm doing?" Andromeda asked, chaffing her hands. She seemed to be feeling the cold.

"If you do nothing, then you're operating from fear and weakness," Petunia said, "and I know you're capable of more; you'd have never defied your family to marry Ted if you weren't."

Andromeda sat up straighter and nodded.

The next morning, however, it appeared that neither Harry's nor Sirius's guardianship applications could proceed anytime soon. Both Petunia and Andromeda came down with influenza, which had been going around Hogsmeade that spring. Andromeda was laid up for ten days. Petunia, worn down by the worries produced by Sirius, ended up in the Hogwarts infirmary for a couple of days and was forbidden to get up for two weeks after that. Sirius, who also contracted it, reaped the whirlwind of sleepless nights, his failure to eat very much, and his habit of drinking rather a lot, and developed pneumonia. He was hospitalized in St. Mungo's, and was seriously ill for some weeks. During that time, Andromeda applied for and was granted his guardianship.

Sirius, as everyone expected, reacted very badly indeed. Petunia only heard about it second hand; she decided that visiting Sirius in St. Mungo's was something she couldn't face, especially as she felt weak after the bout of the 'flu. Andromeda couldn't, either, though Remus Lupin did. His report was not encouraging. Sirius utterly refused to co-operate with the mind-healing team, and railed against both Petunia and his cousin for conspiring to land him in the 'crazy house' as he called it.

"He particularly dislikes that Scottish bloke," Lupin said. "McWhirter."

Petunia nodded. "Titus stopped him from killing Pettigrew. Sirius blames him for Pettigrew's escape, though that was just bad luck, hardly Titus's fault."

Lupin looked as though he would like to say something further, but Petunia did not really want to hear further reproaches. "So what have they decided to do?" she asked, to cut that line of the conversation off.

"They've contacted Ste. Luc's in Paris, to see if they can provide some help. They have quite a famous mind-healer there - Hr. Albelard, his name is - who's bilingual, and he's agreed to take Sirius on. The ordinary healers at St. Mungo's think he'd be better in a warmer climate for awhile, too, his lungs need to heal. So they're flooing him there as soon as he's able to travel."

Petunia breathed a sigh of relief. So, too, did the entire staff of St. Mungo's, as she later learned. Sirius had been difficult, excitable, and loud; and on his bad days, violent. But luckily, once he arrived at Ste. Luc's he, with his usual unpredictability, rather took to Hr. Abelard, and a diagnosis was finally obtained.

"Manic depression," Titus told her. "He had most of the symptoms, but he lacked the most important one - the manic episodes - so we couldn't confirm it."

Petunia nodded, "The Dementors?" she asked.

"Exactly," Hector joined in. "The Dementors suppressed the manic phases, and they didn't resume immediately when he was released, so all he had were the depressive ones. Abelard thinks the manic ones are gradually returning, though. When they do fully return, he says that he's fairly certain that Sirius can be treated with the standard potions for the condition, if he can be persuaded to take them."

"And that's a big if, in Sirius's case," Petunia said. But she suddenly felt a lot better. _Dodging a bullet always feels good, and I think I just did.  
_

But not quite. As Petunia discovered, Sirius had not yet given up on the prospect of marrying her.


	28. CHAPTER 28: BY THE PRICKING OF MY THUMBS

Moi: "Ste." is me confusing female and male French saints. It should be "St." I'll change it when I rewrite.

"Hr" as a contraction for "Healer" I didn't invent myself - read it in another fanfic. Makes sense, though.

On the question of whether or not this is a Severitus: it is. The challenge dictates that the trigger occurs on Harry's sixteenth birthday; I intend to spring it a little sooner than that, but not a whole lot. And he's still only 13 to 14 years old. I think the problem some readers have here is that nearly all Severitus stories are just about the Severitus element and nothing else. This is not _only_ a Severitus, as it happens, and that's why they find it so slow. It's merely one feature of the entire story, and not really the major one, either. It shall be as advertised, but not before time. I have, however, slightly amended the header to reflect this.

Thanks very much everyone who reviewed. Tsloggins & Cherry S, those were two wonderful reviews, which I very much appreciated.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: BY THE PRICKING OF MY THUMBS

_Wherein Petunia undertakes a new project and the boys get an invitation._

Sirius, in fact, wrote to her regularly. The first letters were angry and threatening, and after Petunia read a few, she did not open any more, though they arrived nearly every two days. After a few weeks, Hr. Abelard wrote to her and asked her to 'be a friend' (as he put it) to Sirius, and to resume reading his letters, and to answer them. Petunia bit her lip at this presumption, but she started reading them again.

The letters proved a good barometer of Sirius's state of mind, and things were obviously improving; he actually apologized for his behaviour, in a manner that sounded sincere, and to Petunia's pleasure, started writing to Andromeda Tonks and Remus Lupin as well, or so they reported.

But once discussion of the boys and their doings was exhausted, they needed something else to write about, so Sirius eventually hit upon animagus transformation. Sirius was obviously in a manic phase, Petunia thought, because he suddenly decided that she should become an animagus. She protested: she had a lot to do at the manor, and she wasn't good enough at magic to even try something that complex. Sirius scoffed at her. Of course, she could learn it! He had, hadn't he? He would set out the whole process for her! It would be easy as pie! And he was absolutely certain that her animagus form would be a dog, like his. _Well, you've called me a bitch often enough, Sirius, so that would fit._

Sirius recruited Minerva McGonagall to coach Petunia in the technique. Minerva was frankly doubtful. Petunia still had an intermittent problem with sustained magic, and animagus transformation required it, as well as a steady focus. So they worked hard on stabilizing her magic, and gradually Petunia was able to perform simple exercises, and eventually more elaborate ones. Even if she never managed a transformation, Petunia felt the work was definitely improving her basic magical technique, and so she persisted with it.

Sirius was encouraging, and he actually managed to give her some helpful advice. He seemed to enjoy the role of instructor, and proved talented at breaking down complex magic nto manageable sections and then explaining to her how to undertake them in a way she could understand. He often illustrated his letters with absurd cartoons of animagus transformation that she found very funny. Petunia wondered if her efforts to get him hired at Hogwarts as a professor had made more sense than she had thought at the time. She was even more amused when the cartoons he drew showed her turning into a Borzoi. _That he shows me turning into that particular breed of dog is an indication that he thinks I'm fast, skinny and dumb, I suppose._

But very gradually, his letters started in on areas Petunia preferred to avoid. The letters were fairly upbeat, in general, though Sirius tended to sulk when Petunia cut off any discussion of his proposal - he still thought they should get married. Petunia had hoped that treatment might get him to forget that, but unfortunately, he still seemed obsessed with it. She was willing to bet that the obsession was connected with his illness, but suggesting that to him – tactfully – didn't help much. _I hope to God that hospital has a host of sexy nurses, all of them brunette and buxom, or at least something else to distract him. He needs distraction badly. _

She then wrote to Hr. Abelard and suggested – again, tactfully – that he discourage Sirius from the notion. His response infuriated her: Sirius, he said, would have to abandon the project himself, and he didn't want to jeopardize the trust he had built up with his patient by discouraging him in any idiotic project or by doing anything remotely useful. _Alright, I added that last bit myself_.

That was exasperating, but not her only problem. Petunia felt that the troubles with Sirius had disturbed the boys; they had brought back to them the bad memories from the Vernon days. _And not only the boys; I had some roaring nightmares myself there for awhile._ Dudley and Harry seemed restless and anxious, so by way of distraction for them, she took them on a trip to Cornwall to stay at the Mayhew vacation cottage, which was free for two weeks. The weather was warm and sunny, the cottage had a pleasant seaside location, and the boys were able to invite Hermoine Granger, and Ron and Ginny Weasley to visit them there. The holiday went rather well, and it did seem to help them to get away from the wizarding world for a bit.

During their time at the seaside, Ron Weasley mentioned that his father believed that he could get tickets to the Quidditch World Cup, due at the end of August, and scheduled this year to be held in England. He asked Petunia (politely) if she would object if the boys attended with the Weasleys, if the tickets could be obtained. That left Petunia in one of those no-win parenting dilemmas that she hated. If Molly had been going, she wouldn't have hesitated to say yes; but Arthur Weasley was obviously going to be the sole supervisor in this case. Arthur was a pleasant man, rather absent-minded, and almost as bad as Charity Burbage in his fascination with Muggle ways. (Petunia had once given him a Muggle book called "How Things Work", which had been a great success, apparently.) Would Arthur be a successful overseer of his own seven children plus three more in a large exuberant crowd of wizards? Petunia rather doubted it, but she decidedly did not want to say so. Then again there was the accusation that Sirius liked to throw at her: that she was over-controlling with the boys. It sat and festered at the back of her mind, proof positive, she felt, that it must have a good deal of truth in it. _Hell, yes; I know I am. But I don't want the boys to agree with him, and I suspect that they already do._

So her initial response to Ron was light: let's see if your father can get the tickets before we worry about it. And then she worried all that night about what she should say if he _did_ get the tickets. When Petunia made her monthly visit to St. Mungo's, the issue was no longer in doubt. She told the mind-healing team about it, and saw that while Marcella looked exasperated (she, like Petunia, was not really a Quidditch fan), Hector and Titus looked distinctly wistful.

"Aren't you going?" she asked them, surprised.

"We hadn't planned to," Titus said, with a glance at Marcella. Petunia got it without any more words being said; Titus was still doing penance for the trouble over not reporting Sirius to the Aurors, and the necessity of Marcella pulling strings on his behalf. He'd been fined, too, as she recalled. _He must be short of money, and I rather think Hector must have loaned him some, which is why *he* isn't going._

"What if I managed to get tickets? Would you two come with me?" Petunia asked, remembering how good both men had been about helping her during the trouble with Sirius.

"You won't," Hector said. "They're nearly impossible to obtain."

"O, ye of little faith," Petunia said. _If some more adults went on this expedition, I wouldn't be nearly so nervous about it. _

Getting the tickets proved nearly as impossible as Hector predicted; not only that, scalpers seemed to be an unknown concept in the wizarding world. Petunia didn't know anyone in Quidditch circles, either. Eventually, she gave up on conventional means and played her trump card. She summoned Pompey and asked him to get three tickets to the match, if he could.

As it transpired, he could, which surprised her not at all. Petunia felt discretion was in order, and did not ask him where or how he had managed it, but she did pay for the tickets, and they weren't as expensive as she feared they would be. _I should ask him if whatever he did to get the tickets was legal, I suppose; but I won't. I didn't specify how he was to do it, after all – fair's fair, and no retroactive heckling allowed._

Petunia deposited two of the tickets at St. Mungo's for Hector and Titus, and then impulsively asked Molly Weasley if she wanted to use the other one. Molly was surprised by this offer and disclaimed any notion of going to the match. "You go, and you can share a tent with the girls."

Petunia sighed. _Well, here comes the over-controlling parent, boys. The only difference is that you've got your own instead of Ron's. I don't know if that'll make you happy or sad._

The boys were tactful enough to seem happy about it, and it helped, she supposed, that her seats were with Hector and Titus and not the rest of the party. Arthur gave her rather vague instructions on how and when to arrive at the Weasley residence beforehand and how to dress -'as much like a Muggle as possible.' _That at least I do know how to do_, _Arthur_.

Petunia agreed to appear at The Burrow in the very early morning of the day of the match. Once this promise was made, she immediately regretted it: if she got lost, as she was somewhat prone to do, how would she find her way to the correct spot? To her surprise, the boys presented her with a detailed map with a time line, and gave a copy to Pompey as well. When she asked them why, they told her firmly that they thought Pompey should accompany her, and in fact, they had already recruited him to do so. She looked at her senior house elf and gauged that trying to persuade him not to do so was a waste of time. The boys' word was law with him. Never one to fling her cap over a windmill, Petunia accepted this dictate with as much good grace as she could muster, though it rather disturbed her. _Did her own children consider her a complete fool? No, don't answer that question; I suspect they merely think I've got a poor sense of direction, which I can hardly deny.  
_

Pompey had her up in the shiveringly cold pre-dawn morning, and wouldn't even allow her a cup of coffee before he chivvied her down to an apparition point. Petunia didn't enjoy apparition, but she had grown better at it with practice. She had to admit, though, that the fact that Pompey was present as backup was a comfort to her. _I won't admit that to the boys, though, just as they won't admit that they didn't think I'd get there on time and in one piece if they hadn't intervened_.

Petunia and Pompey apparated to the space in front of The Burrow; it wasn't defined well enough to be called a front yard. The home itself looked a bit like the Meccano constructions that the boys used to make when they were younger, though built with much less precision. In fact, Petunia wasn't exactly sure what held it up. There was only one lonely light on in what appeared to be the kitchen. She was immediately hopeful that Molly might produce a cup of coffee for her, but no such luck: Arthur surged out of the house, followed by a crowd of the younger children – the older ones were going to apparate later. Molly cheerfully declined Petunia's last minute plea that she reconsider not going herself, and they were off.

Walking along in the pitch dark wasn't much fun, but as Petunia put it, _Lumos_ was your friend. She took the two girls in the group in tow; though Ginny had the sure-footedness of a small mountain goat, and started to lead the way, Hermoine tended to lag behind. Petunia, too, lost forward momentum on the hills; Pompey had to light the path for her and Hermoine by holding her wand aloft. Petunia had hoped that he would return to the Manor once she was well on her way, but he blandly ignored her broad hints that he do so. It occurred to Petunia that he might want to see the match, and why not, so she stopped suggesting that he go home.

They arrived at the rendezvous point, which proved to be a clearing with a Portkey (in this case, an old boot) in it. Petunia had read and heard about Portkeys, but she hadn't formed a clear notion of how they operated, so this encounter was an education. She initially wrote off the other wizard they met at the Portkey, Amos Diggory, as a garrulous fool, but then chastised herself; just because wizards seemed foolish or eccentric, didn't mean that they couldn't be acutely dangerous under the right circumstances. _It's just hard to take people dressed in plus fours and hip waders too seriously._ Though Arthur himself looked rather strange, he could pass as a Muggle, if a rather oddly dressed one, in a pinch. Some of the other wizards they encountered on their travels didn't even come close.

A number of witches, wizards and their families had already been encamped on the site for up to two weeks, and they had made themselves right at home, Petunia noted. The majority of the tents tried to look authentically Muggle, but a good many of them didn't bother even to try, and she was amused to see their magical embellishments, and the variations in the different nations represented. She had flattered herself that she was learning more and more about wizarding culture, but she now saw that she still knew next to nothing. _However, the reverse is also true, to judge by what this lot deems to be normal Muggle dress and behaviour._

When they arrived at the campsite that Arthur had reserved, Petunia and the children helped him erect the tents and light a fire. She had not been camping herself since she was a child. Her father had been enthusiastic about it; Marigold and Lily had endured it for the sake of the team; and Petunia had frankly enjoyed it. Her father had taught her the basics, and she could light a fire without matches, strain drinking water until it was palatable, set up a tent properly, and cook over a campfire. Her skills in this area had grown rather rusty during years in the suburbs, but by contrast Arthur Weasley could not even light a fire _with_ matches. Petunia showed him how, and ended up cooking breakfast for the entire party. She reflected that she now understood why Molly had not wanted to come along, as she cleared away the pile of dishes.

The tents Arthur had borrowed seemed very small for the number of people they had to house, but once inside the one allocated to the females of the party, Petunia saw that the interiors were very much larger than she expected. _It's magic, and I shouldn't be surprised, should I? _

As the day wore on, and the start of the match drew closer, they began walking to the pitch. Petunia took everything in, aware that she finally had something to write to Sirius about that might actually interest him. The boys were fascinated by the wares of a group of vendors of basically useless trivia, but Petunia had not the heart to prevent them from buying it. They had money from their birthdays to spend, and she supposed that they might as well do as they chose with it.

Petunia was not sitting with the rest of the party, but was relieved to see that though considerably lower down, the seats Pompey had obtained were not very far away from the Top Box. The stadium was truly enormous and seemed full to bursting with exciting and excited people. Hector and Titus were already occupying their seats when she finally found them, both dressed in their best. Petunia felt suddenly abashed by her Muggle appearance. She was wearing new jeans, a cotton top, a cotton-knit jumper and a short raincoat, but she seemed to be decidedly underdressed for the occasion. _I will not display any discomfort over that, dammit. I saw a wizard dressed in a woman's nightgown today, after all; not to mention another one in a poncho and a kilt. Both breezy combinations, those, even for August._

Neither Hector nor Titus seemed to notice her appearance; men didn't, in Petunia's experience. They greeted her and Pompey happily; Petunia took her seat and Pompey sat down cross-legged in front of her.

Contrary to her expectations, Petunia thoroughly enjoyed the pre-match show provided by the two teams, though she had to restrain her seatmates during the Veela's performance. Hector was naturally backing Ireland, and even had a sixth cousin, once removed, on the team; so he was embarrassed that the Veela had switched his allegiance, if only for a short time. Titus turned bright red when he realized his ensorcelment. Petunia was highly amused. The men passed the rest of the time until the start of the match by telling her blood-curdling stories of the foul play in the first World Cup match in 1473. _Luckily, I don't think anybody will let loose a cloud of vampire bats here, if only because Transylvania isn't playing. I'm not so sure about attempted decapitations with broadswords, alas._

Once the match started, even a non-Quidditch fan like Petunia was transfixed by the speed of the game, and the skill of the players, especially the Irish side. The crowd was literally wild with excitement, and in spite of her skepticism, she joined in the cheering when Ireland won the match after a particularly strong game. Hector was absolutely delighted; Titus was amused by his delight, and Petunia was pleased with it. So they joined in some post-match impromptu celebrations, and eventually had a late meal at eatery that operated out of a series of tents just off the pitch. To Petunia's surprise, the food was rather good, and they drank a toast to the Irish victory.

And then gradually, like the hiss of a snake, the mood of the crowd changed. At first it was something that Petunia just vaguely noticed, and then it became more rapid. The flashing lights were no longer fireworks, and there were screams and sobs among the throngs of people. Petunia caught a glimpse of a group of wizards, marching together, a quartet of Muggles suspended in the air above them. They were masked, like pictures she had seen in books of the Klu Klux Klan, and their venom toward the helpless family hanging there made Petunia feel sick.

Suddenly, Hector and Titus seemed intent upon getting Petunia out of the area; they took by the arms and started pulling her away. "Who are they?" she shouted over the din.

Both of them looked grim: "Death Eaters," Titus said. Petunia saw what he said rather than heard it in the increasing cacophony of yells and screams.

They fought their way to the edge of the crowd. Petunia looked around despairingly; she could no longer see the tents. Where were Arthur and the children?

And then she caught sight of something that made her blood run cold in her veins. High in the night sky she saw outlined a green skull swallowing a serpent, the same sign she had seen over her parent's home as it had burnt them and her childhood to ashes all those years ago.


	29. Chapter 29: SOMETHING WICKED

Jonas 3: Oh, boy. You're right about the spelling of the name; it was always underlined in the text, but I thought it was because it was a proper name. No, it's because you can't spell, dummy! Damn. Anyway, thank you for bringing that one to my attention.

Cherry: You will get your way.

Bookivore: In response to the 1st part of your review: Petunia doesn't want to marry Sirius, because: (1) He's crazy; (2) Her first marriage was a disaster, and she's afraid of making another mistake; (3) She's enjoying her independence; and (4) and most important: she doesn't think Sirius wants to marry her for reasons that make any sense for her. This suggests that she is developing self-esteem, rather than not. However, it's not a straight line of development. She was in Sirius's position once herself, and empathises with his isolation, his loneliness, and his emotional problems, and thus she finds it difficult to cut him off - she says. She also knows that pure-blood wizards regard marriage rather differently, ie as a business proposition, and no offence was meant.

Veronica: Very glad you are enjoying it.

Many thanks for the reviews, everyone who did review, it's always much appreciated, and if anyone else notices any more spelling errors, please let me know.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES

_In which Harry is blamed for something his wand did; the existential masculine dilemma in ye nutshell._

Petunia pulled away from Hector and Titus and cried: "Pompey!"

And Pompey appeared with a pop, eyes wide, nostrils distended. He looked up at her. Petunia knelt down so that they could hear each other. "Do you know a spell for locating people?" she shouted at him. He shook his head, grabbing her wrist, pulled her around the outskirts of the crowd so rapidly that they lost Hector and Titus in the process. Petunia didn't care; she needed to find the boys, and sooner rather than later, and the men seemed more concerned with her safety; they would thus only slow her down.

The edge of the mob was quieter. Pompey said, "There is a spell, Mistress, but it's illegal; the wizards say there is too much potential for misuse." His pursed lips gave his opinion of that. Petunia shook her head, trying to convey that she wanted to use it anyway.

"No need," he shouted. "We can use the old magic."

"Old magic?" Petunia asked, perplexed.

"Make a fire," Pompey said curtly. Petunia used her wand, and did as he asked. He muttered something, and the fire burned blue; he then told her to cut her palm to produce some blood, and to put it into the fire. She didn't have a knife, but Pompey did, and she bloodied her palm with it. He gave her a disapproving 'you-clumsy-Muggle' look, and grasping her by the wrist, shook her bleeding hand over the fire. Droplets of her blood fell into the flames. The flames shot into the sky and then resolved themselves into a ball of light. It set off to the north, as Petunia was able to determine because Pompey showed her the 'point-me' spell. They stumbled after the trail of smoke it left for them.

It was wooded territory and not easy to navigate, especially in the dark. Petunia struggled along after Pompey, who made good time over the uneven ground, using the light from the wand Petunia was holding above her head. They burst into a clearing, and the sudden _mise-en-scene_ imprinted itself on Petunia's brain like a snapshot. A group of adult wizards surrounded Harry, Dudley, Hermione and what looked like a house elf, who was lying on the ground. Their wands were drawn.

"What the _hell _do you think you're doing?" Petunia cried. They looked around at her, frowning. She was surprised to recognize Arthur Weasley of all people, as well as Amos Diggory, and several other wizards she did not know. Arthur rather shame-facedly introduced her to Ludovic Bagman and Bartemius Crouch, among others. She recognized the names from his conversation earlier in the day with his son Percy, and wished now that she had listened to it with more than half an ear.

Crouch had the look of a life-long bureaucrat to Petunia, and in her book, that was not a compliment. She had met plenty of people of his stamp in her life in the form of lawyers, judges and social workers. When angry, the power they wielded made them capable of profound injustices, as she could attest. Crouch was angry.

The focus of his anger seemed to be a small elf – a female, she thought – that apparently belonged to him. Petunia gathered that the elf had been found in the woods with Harry's wand in her hands; and Harry's wand had been found to have produced the skull and snake symbol, still shimmering evilly and triumphantly in the sky above them. At first the group of men had been inclined to blame the child, to Petunia's utter indignation; then they shifted to blaming the elf, which didn't make her any happier. Especially when Crouch himself began bullying the same small elf; when he shouted "This means clothes!" at her, Petunia could no longer contain herself.

"And what _does_ that mean?" she asked sharply. "Were you planning to throttle her with your old school tie?"

"Petunia, please," muttered Arthur.

"No, Arthur, I will not be silent!" Petunia cried. Her nerves were in shreds, she could see that all three of the children were upset, the unfortunate elf was hysterical, and she herself didn't feel much calmer. "What on earth are you on about? You know it wasn't her fault!"

"Be quiet," Crouch snapped. Petunia had stopped being used to rudeness some time ago, and she gasped.

"Now, Barty, no need for that, eh?" Bagman said genially. "You'll be giving Mrs. Dursely the wrong idea about us!" _No, he won't_.

"She is dismissed," Crouch said coldly. It took a minute before Petunia realized that he meant the elf, who wailed in despair. He stormed from the clearing, the other men straggling after him, except for Arthur Weasley.

"A charming display, I must say," Petunia said angrily to him; and then to her own elf she said: "Pompey, can you do anything with her?" The female elf's despairing shrieks were growing louder, despite Hermione's attempts to soothe her.

Pompey didn't hesitate. He trotted over to her and slapped her face twice sharply, and she gasped and swallowed. The shrieks stopped, but her sobbing did not. Petunia cursed under her breath, and said to Pompey, "Bring her along, and try to keep her quiet. We don't want to attract any more attention than we need to in a place like this." This sentiment seemed to penetrate even the elf's misery, and her noise level dropped, to Petunia's relief.

They stumbled along to the tents, Pompey leading the way. Petunia could not see Hector or Titus anywhere, and fervently hoped they had made it home safely. The rest of the party was already at the tents, in various states of wear and tear. To Petunia's astonishment, Arthur proposed to spend the night, or at least part of it, right there, due to the crowds at all the exits and paths. "Are you mad?" she asked. "Don't you know Molly's going to be out of her mind with worry when she hears what's been going on? Maybe you want to stay, but I don't, and I'm damned well not going to! Is there a floo nearby?"

There wasn't, or if there was, Arthur did not know where it might be, and eventually, they decided to use side-along apparition instead. It was extremely unpleasant for the passenger, and Petunia and the older Weasley boys had to be instructed in the technique, but they were desperate to leave.

Petunia knew her instincts had been correct when Molly greeted them with tears, having heard the news on the radio while checking for the score of the match. Given her level of hysteria, Petunia decided to tell Hermione to get her things and come back to the Manor with them. The abandoned elf came along, too, clinging haplessly to Pompey.

Petunia discovered several owls from St. Mungo's awaiting them there; she was relieved to note that they were from Hector and Titus, who had searched for her unsuccessfully before leaving themselves.

So they had guests for the last week of holiday, Hermione Granger, and Mr. Crouch's elf, who rejoiced in what Petunia felt was the truly dreadful name of Winky. Roman generals were absolutely preferable, in her opinion, to coy diminutives of this type. Pompey must have agreed, she supposed, because he absolutely refused to call the elf by that name. He instructed her, in a lofty manner that brooked no argument, that in _this_ household she would be called Calpurnia. She had developed a considerable awe of Pompey, and obediently answered to Calpurnia if _he_ called her by it. Everyone else called her Winky; or at least they did out of Pompey's earshot.

Petunia felt sorry for the elf, and wished she liked her better. Alas, Winky, er, Calpurnia, possessed a talent for extremely wearing _sotto voce_ monologues, which seemed to persist day and night, the burden of which was her come-down in the world because she now was part of Muggle-born-led household. Petunia had heard enough of that from Pompey; she was damned if she would equip him with an echo.

She told him: "If Calpurnia finds us too unrefined, I'll find another place for her. The school, perhaps, or I can ask Andromeda Tonks to take her in." _Well, Andromeda is certainly a pure-blood, but I doubt Winky would like Ted or Dora. Ditto Molly and her tribe of red-headed hellions._

Pompey got the message, and the monologue stopped. Or at least, to be more accurate, it stopped being audible. But Petunia could see the little elf mouthing the words under her breath. _First Sirius, and now this elvish Greek Chorus. This is what altruistic impulses get you, you idiot._

Petunia wondered what had set Crouch off, but Winky, though she seemed to know, would not say – at least to her. To Pompey and Scipio, and to the other three elves at the Manor, she was apparently somewhat more forthcoming. "She hints a lot," Pompey said dourly. "Disobedience, I would imagine."

"She doesn't strike me as the type to be disobedient," Petunia noted.

"She might be so from fear," Pompey said, and Petunia had to admit to him that this was entirely possible. In any case, they were landed with her until Crouch relented or she found more suitably aristocratic surroundings, whichever came first. There were times that Petunia was tempted to help her along to the second future with the toe of her shoe, especially after being told something was only what a Muggle would do, but she suppressed this notion as unworthy, as well as unkind.

The debacle of the World Cup depressed Petunia to the point that she looked forward to the new school year without any enthusiasm. It would undoubtedly bring another problematical DADA teacher; when hadn't it? She had a sudden fear that Dumbledore might hire Sirius; he was quite capable of it. It was thus a relief to hear that the new professor's name was Moody, even if it was accompanied by an alarming cognomen like 'Mad-Eye'.

Petunia gathered that Mad-Eye Moody was a very famous and retired Auror, or wizarding police officer. That sounded promising, but from experience, she didn't invest too much hope in him, remembering Lockhart's undeserved reputation, and how Lupin's pleasant demeanor had masked his lycanthropy.

There was something else going on; Minerva McGongall was in a state of suppressed excitement during their transformation tutorials. Petunia was reaching a point where she had to concentrate very hard to make any progress at all, and so she kept her mind on her work, and didn't ask questions. Minerva had stopped saying it was a good exercise for Petunia's magic, and started speculating about Petunia's eventual animagus form. Petunia supposed she should be flattered, but she found the amount of work it took was so daunting, so continuous, and so very difficult, that she seriously considered abandoning it. Only Sirius's regular letters kept her going; she hated, or maybe she feared to disappoint him as he was heavily invested in her progress, and monitored it minutely.

Once school started, Petunia's pessimism proved entirely justified. The boys' reports on their first lesson with Mad-Eye Moody shocked Petunia - she certainly didn't expect the man to teach impressionable 14-year-olds the Unforgivables, and demonstrate them on insects for his class, no less. Was the man mad? _Redundant question, of course. All wizards are mad._ Petunia knew that if she complained to Dumbledore, he would ignore her as he always did, so this time she went straight to Moody himself to object.

Moody was an extremely odd-looking man, even for a wizard. He had one genuine eye, hard and black, and a fake one, rolling and blue, long greying hair, and an extraordinary collection of scars on display. He also had a manner that Petunia resented, because he didn't even bother to hide his contempt for her complaints.

"You are?" he asked brusquely, peering at her. "Dursley? Don't remember the name. Your son is in my fourth-year class, you say? Which House?"

"Hufflepuff," Petunia said.

"Oh_, Hufflepuff_," Moody responded. Petunia could see him write her off in his mind.

"Do you think it's a good idea to teach children that young Unforgivables?" Petunia asked. Moody's blue eye did a loop-de-loop, and he gave a wheezing laugh.

"Most of 'em couldn't muster up enough magic to kill a house fly," he said derisively. "And if your boy's a Hufflepuff, I don't think you need worry."

"Which means?" Petunia asked, offended by his tone.

"Which means he's not likely to use 'em," Moody said. "Hufflepuffs being what they are."

"It's a very honourable House," she retorted, nettled.

"Of course it is," Moody said placatingly, "Don't misunderstand me, ma'am. I don't mean to denigrate the 'Puffs, but aggression is not their most salient characteristic. Traditionally."

"Well, what if one of the boys in one of the other Houses uses it on _him_?" Petunia asked.

"There is that, of course," Moody said, nodding. "Then he'll know what it feels like, I'd guess."

"That's the stupidest bloody remark I've ever heard!" Petunia cried, losing patience. "It's downright irresponsible to do what you did!"

Moody's real eye narrowed and he stared at her. "Used 'em yourself, have you?"

"No, I haven't!"

"Well, then – that explains it. Were you ever taught them?"

Petunia bristled. "I didn't attend Hogwarts."

Moody considered her. "Durmstang?"

"No, I didn't attend any wizarding school at all."

"Well, if you were home schooled, I can't say I'm surprised that your parents didn't teach you them, then. Where are you from? Given the speed of the complaint, you must live in Hogsmeade."

"Just outside Hogsmeade. Mayhew Manor." _I'm not going to bother telling him I'm a Muggle-born Squib. He hasn't mentioned *his* status, after all. I don't see why I should always be obliged to do so._

"Mayhew Manor? Are you related to old Cressida?"

"Great-grandniece," Petunia muttered.

"Old family, the Mayhews. Some really famous wizards, there, too. There's something odd about your magic, though. It feels like old magic, but it doesn't seem to quite flow properly. And there's a real potential for darkness..." Moody trailed off.

_He's trying to get me to lose my temper. Not on your tintype, Mandrake._

"I'm sure there is," she responded calmly. "But we're not talking about me, but about my son. I think you're compromising his safety, and those of his classmates, with lessons like this."

"I have Dumbledore's permission for it," Moody said, "and the decision wasn't taken lightly. You heard about the riot at the World Cup, I'm sure. Trouble's coming, and all elements of the wizarding community have to be better prepared than they were the last time."

"If they start using those curses on each other, all that preparation will go for naught," Petunia said. As she saw that she was getting nowhere with Moody, and decided to talk to Minerva McGonagall rather than Dumbledore, whom she knew by experience would pelt her with comforting inanities, and do nothing.

After talking to Minerva, she suspected that the older witch agreed with her, but had lost the same argument some time ago. And Minerva was no longer even interested, because evidently more important things were brewing: that day Dumbledore had announced to the school that Hogwarts was hosting a Triwizard Tournament.

"What's that?" Petunia asked, resigned. _Don't answer that question_; _another stupid, frightening, lunatic thing to worry about, that's what it is._


	30. Chapter 30: THE UNCOMMON WELSH GREEN

Hyena: No, the title is from the novel, "By Grand Central Station, I Sat Down and Wept" by E. Smart - it's a book that is sometimes well-written, very frequently over-written, and frequently annoying, but I liked the title of it, which _does_ seem to come from Psalm 137, aka 'By the Rivers of Babylon,' which I didn't know. Well spotted.

Wow, you lot were really on fire with interesting observations and suggestions in the reviews, some of which I'm going to put to use. Not all of them immediately, however.

Cherry: I was delighted that you got the joke. :)

Veronica: I have written the ending, but frankly, I'm not exactly sure how we're going to get there. Yet.

The update schedule is once per week (hopefully on Wednesdays).

CHAPTER THIRTY: THE UNCOMMON WELSH GREEN

_In which Petunia falls heir to yet another Mayhew possession_, _one which refuses to stay lost_.

And it was. Hosting a Triwizard Tournament in the circumstances made no sense at all, so of course, the wizards had spent time and trouble and gold to arrange it. Or so Petunia felt. It meant an invasion of strangers, some of whom would be staying at the school throughout the year; it meant danger to the student Champions. It meant that they were spending time on this silly mummery instead of chasing and catching the Death Eaters who had disrupted the World Cup. Her only consolation was that Dudley and Harry were both at least three years too young to enter the tournament themselves. _Hallelujah, amen._

Not to her surprise, the boys excitedly discussed entering it anyway. "Forget about that," Petunia said sharply. "I wouldn't consent to it, even if you _were_ eligible."

"Tante, apparently they've never restricted the age of the eligible wizards before. We should be allowed to enter even if we're only third years, don't you think so, Dud?"

If Petunia expected Dudley to have more common sense than Harry, she was destined for disappointment. He could see that he would be in trouble no matter how he answered, so he came down on Harry's side. _Why should I be surprised? He's fourteen._

"There's no point even in discussing it, since you can't compete under the current rules," Petunia told them. "That tournament's dangerous, in any case. I understand that they haven't held it for years for just that reason. A cockatrice got loose and injured the heads of all three schools during the last one. And please don't ask me what a cockatrice is, for I haven't an earthly."

"It's a magical being with the head of a rooster and the tail of a lizard," Hermione Granger, who happened to be present, piped up.

"I am now enlightened," Petunia said, in a long-suffering tone. The boys paid absolutely no attention. They speculated on who would be chosen as the Hogwarts champion; and when the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons parties arrived at the school, they were thoroughly delighted by the presence of Viktor Krum, he of the Romanian Quidditch Team seeker fame. Petunia was profoundly bored by these raptures, though she tried not to show it. _Their obsession with this nonsense will wear itself out. It did with the World Cup. I only hear about that about ten times a day now. A definite improvement over the hundred times per day it was a month ago. _

About a week before Hallowe'en, however, Petunia answered the door at the Manor to find an apologetic-looking young man on the doorstop. He gave her an uneasy smile, and said: "Hello, Mrs. Dursley, do you remember me? We met at the Quidditch World Cup. Charlie Weasley."

"Oh, yes! Charlie! " Petunia said, surprised. "Are you here to pick up something for your mother?" she asked.

He shook his head and said: "No – this is official. I'm here to deliver – well, perhaps _return_ is the better word – something to you. It's out by your gate." He turned and gestured toward the lane.

Tethered to the gate by thin chains was what appeared to be a green winged lizard, the size of a large, thin kneazle. When it caught sight of Petunia, it stood up on its hind legs, and looked at her eagerly. Neck and tail thus extended, Petunia judged that he might come up to her shoulder.

"This is Algernon," Charlie said. "He used to belong to Miss Mayhew, but when she died, he became uncontrollable and was sent to the Romanian dragon reserve I work at. But he's homesick, and to be frank, they find he incites the other dragons, and makes mischief nearly constantly. I happened to mention to my boss that you were living at the Manor now – and well, he wanted to return the dragon to you. Says he belongs to you now."

"Well, I certainly don't belong in the Balkans," Algernon said sharply. "I shouldn't have been sent there in the first place."

Petunia jumped. "He talks!" she exclaimed.

Algernon gave her a look. "_You _talk!" he said.

"Yes, but -" Petunia faltered when she realized that she was arguing with a lizard, er, dragon.

Charlie drew her toward the house. "There's a few things I have to explain to you about Algernon," he said in an undervoice.

"I didn't know dragons could talk," Petunia said, amazed.

"They can't," Charlie said. "In general; but Algy is the exception. To be frank, Mrs. Dursley, he's probably a wizard-bred sport."

"Which is?"

"Some wizard in your family must have decided they wanted a dragon familiar. They needed to reduce the size, and to find a way to communicate with it to make the notion successful, and they got a little carried away."

They met Pompey on the steps. He did not look happy. "That thing!" he exclaimed, glaring at Algernon. "What is _he_ doing back here?"

Algernon scowled back at him. "I am not a _thing_, you overgrown garden gnome!" he cried.

"Who sent him to Romania in the first place, Pompey?" Petunia asked, suddenly curious. "Did you?"

"I did," said Pompey, his usual sour expression reaching new heights of astringency. "Messy animal. He was upset because he didn't have a witch to be a familiar to after Mistress Cressida died. He was making a lot of vulgar noise and setting the curtains afire."

"The crime of crimes," Petunia said absently. "Wait a minute! He's _fire_-breathing?"

"Um...yes," said Charlie. "He is."

Petunia said: "I am _not_ having a fire-breathing dragon in this house!"

Apparently, however, she didn't get a vote. Charlie Weasley was sympathetic, but he utterly refused to take Algy back to Romania. He was evidently much more afraid of his boss than he was of her. _I'll have to work on that_,_ obviously._

"Oh, by the way," said he, just before making good his escape, "my boss wants to know if you have any information on how Algy was bred. Letters, papers, anything. They obviously used a Common Welsh Green as the base, from the look of him, but we're not sure whether they crossed him with another dragon or not; or what in fact they _did_ cross him with."

Petunia guessed that if there _was_ anything, it would be in the library, but that was a room that she hadn't yet cleared. It was covered in dark, gloomy panelling, and faced north; at first sight, Dudley had called it 'a winter room' and Petunia could see what he meant. It might be very cosy with a fire in the grate and the heavy curtains drawn against wild weather, but in other seasons, it merely looked dreary. The piles of mouldering boxes in the corners didn't help. There were bookcases filled with equally dark and mouldering books. Petunia sighed. "I'll look, if he agrees to take that thing back if I discover something."

Charlie grinned; and Petunia realized she had just agreed to keep Algernon, at least for awhile. _Damn_. Young Mr. Weasley beat a path down the lane before she could change her mind, releasing Algernon's chains as went. The little dragon spread his wings and landed, rather awkwardly, on Petunia's shoulders. He peered into her face, and said: "I remember you now: you're Petunia. Tully's great-granddaughter. You used to visit here."

"A long time ago, when I was little, but I don't remember _you_," Petunia said, unwillingly fascinated.

Algernon sniffed. "I had to stay out of sight," he said, "because you were Muggles."

"You mentioned my great-grandfather -"

"Cressida's youngest brother, yes. Tully. He was a Squib. You _do_ look a good bit like him, actually. Too bad."

Algernon could talk, but whoever had bred him had not equipped him with a guard on his tongue. Whatever came into his head, he would utter, and Petunia could foresee a bleak future of being put thoroughly to the blush by him. She tried exiling him to one of the outbuildings; but he refused to stay there, and threatening to burn the place down if locked up. So back he came to the Manor, and she had to listen to his questions, his complaints, and his mutterings, the gist of which was that he wanted to be a familiar to a member of the family. Petunia herself would not do, he said; he required a real wizard or witch, not a Muggle-born, thank you.

"Sorry I'm not good enough for you," Petunia said sarcastically.

"I'm sorry about it, too," Algernon said, the sarcasm sailing right over his head, "though I'm hoping that at least one of your boys will be suitable."

But alas, Algernon was not particularly impressed with Dudley and Harry. "What a pair of snot noses!" he exclaimed, with his usual shattering frankness. (Well, both the boys _did_ both have heavy colds that day.) "Which one is the elder?" he asked, after giving them the once-over.

"Dudley is."

Algernon peered intently at both boys and then snorted, breathing a series of smoke rings. "That one," he said, indicating Dudley, "is overweight. And I'll wager _that_ one," he pointed to Harry, "has knobbly knees."

"Guilty!" cried Harry, trying hard not to laugh.

"_And_ he's near-sighted," Algernon said. "They just won't do, either one. I _do_ have standards! There's nothing else for it: you'll have to have another baby. I'd much prefer a witch to a wizard, in any case; I'm used to them."

"Oh, will I?" Petunia said.

"You will. But let me have a good look at the prospective father, first, if you please, I don't want you wasting my time."

"Algy!" cried Petunia. "One more word, and it's Romania!" She had discovered that this threat was perhaps the only thing that restrained him. Algy looked mutinous, but he subsided. He did not want to go back to Romania, he said, where he claimed the bigger dragons bullied him and no one talked to him. Petunia thought she understood the reasons for both these occurrences; Algy was distinctly annoying, when he wasn't infuriating.

The boys, of course, thought Algy the Uncommon, as they persisted in calling him, was a complete laugh, and could bring each other to helpless giggles by saying 'what a pair of snot-noses!', '_that_ one has knobbly knees!' or 'I _do_ have standards!' in imitations of Algernon's raspy, fire-infused voice. They were also amused by his insistence that Petunia provide him with a proper magical baby to be a familiar to, and they suggested to him Sirius might fit the bill if a father of same was required. When Algy understood who Sirius was, he drove Petunia nearly mad with questions about him, his background, his health and his habits. Her declaration that she had not the remotest intention of marrying Sirius had no effect on Algy whatsoever. His obsession with 'my witch' (as he called the prospective baby) was complete, and frequently utterly embarrassing, as Petunia learned a little later.

Petunia had, after a good deal of work, managed to get the walled kitchen garden, and the sunken knot garden at the Manor back into reasonable form. After consulting with Pompey, she then decided to use the largest of the outbuildings – the one that was in the best shape – to restart the poultry yard, and to house animals that would hopefully supply the household with fresh milk. She thought that goats would be the best way to begin, and sought out some to buy. Madame Rosmerta directed her to the Hog's Head pub in Hogsmeade; the owner, she was told, bred goats, and might be willing to sell some.

When she and Pompey arrived at the Hog's Head, however, Petunia was frankly doubtful. The pub looked ramshackle and grimy, and she was about to leave when she spied a byre behind the building. Its door was open, and she could hear bleating from within. She approached the building, and peered inside. There were numerous goats within, looking surprisingly clean, bright-eyed, and well cared-for. There was also a tall, elderly, grey-haired wizard, who glared at her.

"I'm looking for the owner," Petunia faltered. "I want to buy some goats."

"What for?" he muttered. "Indian cuisine night?"

Petunia bristled. "No, I want to restart the barnyard at my home. Mayhew Manor."

After a pause, the wizard said, "I thought I recognized that elf. Hello, Pompey."

Pompey bowed politely. "Who's this then?" the man asked him, ignoring Petunia.

"This is my Mistress," Pompey said sedately.

The wizard raised his brows. "Did you buy the Manor, then?" he asked, this time addressing Petunia directly.

"No, I inherited it," Petunia said, irritated.

"Surprise! I didn't know Cressida had any living relatives."

"Great grandniece," Petunia said, yet again. She was growing tired of explaining that.

"I thought the Mayhews had Squibbed out. Apparently not. Are you living there alone?"

"No. There's five – six – house elves, and my children come on Sundays to visit; I have two boys in Hogwarts." _I don't think I should mention the resident dragon, somehow._

"Even more surprising," the man said, looking at her with more interest. Since he still didn't volunteer a name, Petunia was forced to ask him for it directly. "Aberforth," he said.

"Pleased to meet you," Petunia lied politely. "Are some of your goats for sale?"

He was unwilling to sell any of his goats, he said, unless he was sure that Petunia could properly care for them. Had she ever tried goat's milk? Yes, her sister had been allergic to cow's milk, so that is what both of them drank as children, and she had liked it. Did she know how to milk goats? No. Did she know what they ate? Not really; don't they eat everything?

The man gave her a malevolent look; that was obviously the wrong thing to say. He lectured her on the number of toxic things that the goats could not eat and which might kill them if they tried. The myth that goats would eat anything was just that; and so forth. Petunia sighed inwardly but listened as politely as she could manage. He then offered to look at her proposed goat byre and tell her if it was suitable.

They walked to the Manor, Aberforth in a long loping stride, Petunia scurrying along miserably beside him, trying to keep up, and Pompey bringing up the rear, too dignified to hurry.

Aberforth inspected the large outbuilding that Petunia had earmarked for the goats and rejected it; too big, too cold, they liked cozy places. The farm did have a proper byre, but it was tumbledown and weed choked. He helped Petunia clear it using magic, and gave her the direction of a wizarding builder in Hogsmeade that he said could restore it.

Petunia, who had not much luck in forming any contacts with her neighbours, then hopefully invited him to tea, and rather to her surprise, he accepted. In the rush of information Aberforth had thrown at her, Petunia had rather forgotten about Algy, so that when he leaped onto her shoulder as soon as she had shepherded Aberforth into the drawing room, even she was startled. He then leapt from her shoulder to Aberforth's and started to inspect him minutely, even lifting his long hair to peer at the back of his neck.

"Really, Petunia!" he said, raspily, "He's far too old!"

Petunia thought that she would drop dead, then and there, from sheer embarrassment. "Algy!" she cried.

Algy said: "How many times have I told you, someone younger is better?"

Aberforth, looking amused, asked: "Younger than what?"

"Younger than a hundred," Algy said, matter-of-factly. "And older than thirty or so. How am I to get my witch if Petunia doesn't have another baby? And to do that, she needs a wizard. A _young_ one."

"Indeed," Aberforth said, lip twitching. Petunia was so humiliated that by way of distracting him, she handed him a glass of Firewhiskey, and even poured one for herself. She still had very little taste for hard liquor, but she felt that life with Algy might yet cure her of that.

Algy was still being completely indiscreet: "The boys say that Sirius Black would be suitable, but I don't think so. The Mayhews have a history of eccentricity, but none of them ever ended up in the madhouse."

"Algy!" Petunia protested. "Sirius isn't mad – he has manic depression."

Algy snorted. Aberforth said mildly: "I think I may vote with the dragon on that one, genetics being what they are."

"There!" said Algy. "You see? Sirius is good-looking, I suppose – the boys showed me a picture - and he _is_ a pure-blood, but my witch is absolutely _not _going to inherit manic depression! From him or anyone else." He looked at Aberforth: "You're quite sensible, for a wizard. Pity you're not younger."

"I apologize for my age," Aberforth said, with straight face, and a courtly bow.

"You might well, it's very disappointing!"

With that parting shot, Algy spread his wings and flew out of the room. _Probably looking for Pompey, so he can heckle him._

Aberforth watched him go, smiling broadly. "I'd heard Cressida kept a sport dragon, but I considered it a silly rumour, the type you hear in Hogsmeade all the time."

"As you can see, it isn't," Petunia said heavily. "Pompey sent him to Romania after Cressida died. The Romanians, having sampled his personality, sent him right back once they realized I had inherited the Manor. I get the impression it was that or dragonicide. I may be driven to it yet."

"The Mayhews had a very poor reputation in the village," Aberforth said. "Did you know that?"

"No, I didn't. Were they Death Eaters?" Petunia asked, startled.

"Not _that_ type of poor reputation," Aberforth said. "They liked to breed magical creatures. Especially the illegal variety. Old Cassius Mayhew liked dragons, and his elder sons did, too. There were also rumours that they were trying to breed basilisks."

Petunia gasped. "I doubt they were actually doing that," Aberforth said quickly, "but they needed to keep people away from here and spreading stories like that was an easy way to do it. They didn't want anything getting back to the Ministry." _They sound like typical wizards; in order to hide the fact that you are breeding fire-eating dragons, spread the word that you are breeding something even worse._

"They bred Algy, then?" Petunia asked.

"I think that they did, and not only him," Aberforth said. "It must have occurred to you that Mayhew house elves aren't exactly typical."

"At first, no. Pompey was the only house elf I knew for quite a number of years. But since then – yes, we've acquired an outside house elf, and she's quite different."

"Old Cassius – Cressida's father - was a bit of a wizarding free thinker. He didn't believe in wizarding pre-eminence, for one thing. Didn't disown his youngest son, either – he must be your ancestor – when his magic was atypical, which is the polite way of describing a Squib."

"What was his name?" Petunia asked.

"Catullus, as I recall," Aberforth said, after some thought. "But Cassius couldn't really accept that the boy was a Squib. Happens in the best families, but according to him, not the Mayhews. Claimed the boy's magic was blocked, or some damn thing. Just silly denial. The whole village thought he was a complete fool."

Petunia blinked and said nothing.

"Then I heard that Cassius had graduated to wizards and was trying to experiment on Catullus himself, attempting to unblock his magic. The boy got the wind up and ran for it, and small blame to him. Cassius never understood that, of course. As far as he was concerned, he was just trying to help. Looked for his son for years, but I understand that the boy managed to stay lost, at least until Cassius died."

Petunia wished that she knew more about Tully, but she could not recall her mother ever talking about him. "Is that why my neighbours won't darken my door?" she asked. "I thought it was because I was Muggle-born."

"Oh, most of them wouldn't care for that," Aberforth said. "They want to wait and see if you're a typical Mayhew."

Petunia looked at Algy and thought about what might happen if she _did _have guests. She sighed. Perhaps she was destined to be a social outcast no matter where she lived.

Along with the goats she eventually bought from him, Petunia seemed to acquire Aberforth. He visited the Manor every two or three weeks or so to inspect his former charges, and ensure that she was looking after them properly; and to spar with Algy, who amused him no end. She liked him, though; she wondered if he were a Muggle-born, because he had a host of practical skills, unlike most pure-blood wizards she had encountered. _He reminds me a bit of my dad, actually. He's not so patient, and he's much more cynical, but he's got a sense of humour, and he doesn't take himself any too seriously, another rarity among wizards._

Through him, in a small way, Petunia began to meet her neighbours. But she was alone the day that Daffy burst into the drawing room and delivered a fateful note from Dudley. Harry, he wrote, had been chosen to represent Hogwarts in the Triwizard Tournament.


	31. Chapter 31:DOUBLE,DOUBLE, TOIL & TROUBLE

Sorry about the mistakes: Yes, Harry and Dudley are fourth and not third years, and yes, Krum is Bulgarian, not Romanian. *Sigh*

Glad most of you liked Algy, and an earlier advent for Aberforth.

Moi & Cherry: Your observations and suggestions are always tremendously interesting and entertaining to read.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: DOUBLE, DOUBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE

_In which Harry becomes a contestant in the Triwizard Tournament, but no one seems exactly sure how it happened, including him._

Petunia had been reclining on a rather moth-eaten couch in the drawing room, trying to read one of the books from the Manor library. She had discovered that a good many of them were in Runic, some were in Latin, with a few each in Greek, French, German, Spanish, Serbo-Croat, Arabic, Gaelic, Chinese, what appeared to be Urdu, and archaic English. The rest were in English of various, mostly fairly recent —meaning the last three centuries - vintages. Petunia could tell that information on the origins of Algernon the Uncommon was going to be difficult to discover.

Light was pouring into the room through the tall windows, clear glass with stained glass borders which cast coloured reflections on the floor. The afore-mentioned miniature dragon was lazing on a sunny patch on the rug beside her, fast asleep. He snored gently, and yipped happily as he dreamed. Petunia didn't mind the sound effects; if he was asleep, he wasn't nagging her or asking embarrassing questions.

She had been thoroughly exasperated with Algy this morning, mainly because he had been insisting that she consult a _brocer priodas. _Petunia had no clue what that was, and was not amused when she realized that he meant a marriage broker. She tried fighting his obsession with 'his witch' with logic: what if the subsequent baby was not his witch, but a wizard?

"You'd have to try again," Algy said simply.

"What if I marry this pure-blood whoever, and we don't have any children?" Petunia tried again.

"You'd have to try someone else," said Algy, as if this were obvious.

"I'm no spring chicken, Algy," Petunia pointed out.

"I know where to find potion recipes that will help with that," said Algy. Petunia froze; she suspected that Algy knew more about the contents of the library and the Manor than he was prepared to admit. Unfortunately, his ears had caught her aside to Charlie Weasley about his repatriation to Romania in exchange for information on his breeding. Algy was having none of that, and Petunia's questions about his experiences in the past often went unanswered.

There was a tap on the half-opened window, and she looked up to see Daffy hovering there. Some instinct told her it was trouble, mainly because the boys invariably used the affable and apologetic Daffy for the delivery of bad news. (Hegwig, who always had a regally imperious air with Petunia, delivered good news.) As usual, her instincts were right. As she read it, she reflected bitterly that she had been utterly stupid to rely on assurances that the Tournament was closed to younger children. If disaster could happen to her and hers in the wizarding world, it would. And it had.

She immediately floo'd to the Castle, and hurried up to Dumbledore's office. There she found Harry sitting in a chair and being interrogated, and not generally in a friendly manner, by a batch of intimidating wizards: the Headmaster, Snape, McGonagall, and Bartemius Crouch; and two people she did not recognize, and who turned out to be Igor Karkaroff and Olympe Maxime, the respective Heads of Durmstang and Beauxbatons Schools. Dudley was also there, lurking behind a pillar, as if he was afraid he would be evicted if anyone noticed him.

"Stop this!" Petunia cried, and Harry looked around. An expression of relief crossed his face.

Dumbledore looked around. "Ah, Mrs. Dursley! I see you've heard the news."

He proceeded to tell her that even though Amos Diggory's son, Cedric, whom she remembered vaguely from the World Cup, had been chosen the Champion for Hogwarts, Harry's name had also come out of the Cup.

"The what?" she asked.

"The Goblet of Fire. It's a profoundly magical object which chooses the most suitable among those who enter the Tournament as the three Champions, one for each school."

"Hasn't anyone here even heard of drawing names out of a hat?" Petunia muttered. "Why does everything have to be so damned difficult? So damned _elaborate_?"

Dumbledore gave her a reproving look, which she ignored. "We are trying," he said, patiently, "to determine how it happened. There was a magical age line to prevent underage entries, for one thing. I cast the spell myself, and if I do say so, it was properly done."

"Harry," Petunia said. "Did you put your name in this Cup thing?"

Harry shook his head. "No, Tante," he said, sounding unusually subdued. "I didn't. But no one here believes me. Except Dud."

Dudley gave his cousin a 'leave-me-out-of-it' look, but Petunia knew better than to take that too seriously.

Petunia also knew Harry better than anyone else in the room, with the possible exception of Dudley. She knew if Harry _had_ done it, he would have been excited and pleased with himself. He appeared to be neither. In fact, he looked bewildered and anxious. She looked over his head at Dudley, and raised her brows. He shook his head, which confirmed her suspicions.

"Well, then, we know that Harry didn't do it," she said. "So who did?"

That proved to be the question. Karkaroff and Maxime appeared to think Dumbledore had done it to give Hogwarts the extra advantage of two Champions, which Petunia doubted. If the Headmaster was going to go to all that trouble for that motive, surely he would have chosen a tough seventh-year as his second Champion, not a fourth year student? _Of course, that's predicated on him being logical, which is not exactly a given._ Snape thought Harry was lying, not because he had any proof, but because it was the sort of thing James Potter would have done. _His idée fixes are irrelevant and moreover, don't interest me._ McGonagall was baffled. _Me, too._ Petunia had apparently missed Moody, who had propounded a theory to the room that someone wanted to expose Harry to danger and had deliberately entered him to do so. _That one's not impossible, but isn't it very roundabout? Why not just a covert spell in the hall?_

They had neglected the possibility that it was a prank by one of the other students – and very possibly an ill-natured one. By ill-natured, Petunia meant Slytherin, though she realized that wizards had their own version of PC, and she should not openly say so. But when she suggested this, everyone shrugged. "It would take a very powerful wizard," Snape said dismissively, "to fool the Cup. I don't think any of the students could do it."

"Yet you were quite prepared to think Harry did it," Petunia pointed out. "And it's possible the student or students in question had help or directions from someone else."

Snape scowled. Karkaroff, who Petunia deemed a blustering fool, started accusing Dumbledore of malfeasance again; Petunia supposed it must suit his purposes to do so. _Something more going on there; they must know each other from the past. He doth protest too much, too._

"Well, it doesn't matter how it happened, really, does it?" Petunia said. "He's not going to compete."

"Well, as to that, Mrs. Dursley," Dumbledore said. "I'm afraid he will have to."

Petunia stared at him. "That's not even remotely amusing," she said.

Crouch spoke for the first time: "He _must_ compete. It's a binding magical contract."

"How can it bind him if he didn't actually enter? It's a binding magical nothing! He's not competing, and that's that!" Petunia was now on her feet, and she could feel her face flushing.

Dumbledore said, with a patient air that set her teeth on edge: "I certainly understand your feelings, Mrs. Dursley - "

"No, you don't!" Petunia cried.

"There is no need to lose your temper, Mrs. Dursley."

"My temper is not the slightest bit lost, but your mind is! Harry is only fourteen years old, and every other Champion is seventeen. The tasks are dangerous, and contestants have been killed, isn't that so?"

"Not recently - "

"Not recently because this stupid damn contest has been suspended for the last two hundred years!"

Crouch said flatly: "If the boy doesn't fulfill the contract, he will be expelled."

"Expel him, then," Petunia said. _Threats like that are no threats at all. To me, anyway._

Crouch seemed surprised, and then he said: "There would be a great outcry over his failure to honour the contract, and I would be compelled, on behalf of the Ministry, to review the boy's guardianship." _Now *that's* a threat._

Petunia stared at him. She wondered how many times she had fled Dumbledore's office in high dungeon; it must be in the double figures by now. _Doesn't matter, we've leaving. Right now._

And leave they did. Dumbledore did not attempt to stop them, but from the expression on Crouch's face, Petunia could tell this wasn't the end of it. The boys were quiet as they floo'd to the Manor. When they arrived through the fireplace, they discovered Aberforth visiting with Algy, who was delighted to see him; he was a highly social dragon, and he particularly enjoyed Aberforth's company, and was even willing to forgive his perdeliction for goats. Pompey had already provided Aberforth with some Firewhiskey, Petunia was relieved to note.

"What's the matter?" Aberforth asked her, seeing their faces.

Petunia explained, and Aberforth's brows rose to his hairline. "Wouldn't have thought you'd have it in you, boy," he said to Harry.

"I didn't do it!" Harry said. "Fred and George Weasley tried to enter, even though they were a few weeks underage, and the age line threw them out. It did the same thing with several other people. But I swear, I didn't try it. I talked it up, everybody did, you're expected to, but I didn't even try."

"He didn't. I would know if he had," was Dudley's contribution.

Petunia said to Aberforth, "So how did it happen? The Heads of the other schools think – or pretend to think - that Dumbledore wants two Hogwarts champions; Snape thinks Harry did it deliberately; Minerva McGonagall doesn't know; and Moody thinks someone wants to harm Harry. I need hardly say, none of these scenarios make any sense."

"Moody's closest, I'd say," said Aberforth. "But you're right, none of them do make any sense."

"Why don't you want him to compete, Petunia?" Algy asked. "A Mayhew can do _anything_!"

"Setting aside the abilities of the Mayhews, he's a full three years younger than all of the other contestants," Petunia said. "And it's _dangerous_."

"Well, then, he'll just have to cheat," said Algy, as if this conclusion was obvious.

Aberforth laughed. "Cheating is epidemic in Triwizard Tournaments, Algy. They'll _all_ be cheating."

"Not Cedric," said Dudley. "Probably, anyway."

"Harry will just have to cheat _more_," said Algy. "Mayhews are _good _at cheating."

"A wonderful family attribute to have," Petunia said cordially to the little dragon, while the boys nudged each other, and grinned, to her relief. As usual, the sarcasm escaped him, and he preened.

"Not a bad suggestion, though," said Aberforth. "We'll all help even the playing field a bit, quite literally. Did they give you the first clue yet, Harry?"

"No, they didn't," Harry said. "They said I wouldn't get one."

"Yes, you will," chirped Algy. "Because _I_ know what the first task is."

"Of course you do," Petunia said soothingly.

"I do!" cried Algy. "Charley Weasley didn't just bring _me_ from Romania! There were four other dragons, big ones!"

"Charley couldn't escort four big dragons!" Dudley said. "That's too much for anybody!"

"Of course it is," Algy said. "There were eight wizards per dragon. There's Lowri the Welsh Green, she looks like me, only much bigger; Hulda the Swedish Short-Snout, she's blue and snub-nosed; Hong the Chinese Fireball, she's red, with spikes; and Reka the Hungarian Horntail, she's big, black and really scary. She threatened to kebab me on the trip over."

"And what did you do to deserve that?" Petunia asked, trying not to smile.

"She said I talked too much," Algy said, with an aggrieved air.

"A dragon of discernment," murmured Petunia.

"I thought you were the only talking dragon then?" Harry said.

"Well, yes, but I can communicate with Lowri after a fashion - big Welsh Greens understand a lot of wizard-speech, even if they can't speak it. And with the others, I can interpret roars - you know: great big roar, semi-roar, demi-roar - "

"Yes, yes, we get it, Algy," Petunia said.

"They brought their eggs, too," Algy disclosed. With this piece of information, it wasn't too difficult to piece together the essentials of the task, and Aberforth agreed to see what he could learn from Hagrid when he visited the Hog's Head, as he frequently did. "Takes a lot to make him drunk; but when he gets there, he can't keep a secret to save his life." Petunia had no trouble at all in believing it.

Somehow, she had been lured from 'never' to 'maybe, on conditions' without even being aware of how it happened. She had more shaken than she cared to admit over Crouch's threat of Ministry involvement in Harry's guardianship, and she was aware that in the wizarding world, he would have the advantage over her if he wanted to make trouble; and it was obvious that he did. Winky — that is, Calpurnia – might weep at the mention of her former employer's name, but Petunia didn't underestimate him.

So, with the utmost reluctance, Petunia agreed that Harry could compete. But she also decided to take Aberforth's advice as well; and that involved learning everything possible that might give Harry an advantage. _I won't call it cheating, exactly_. _But if these fools insist on forcing a fourteen-year-old boy into this damn tournament, that's what I'm going to do._

Petunia had once told Sirius that she had a good intelligence network, and she hadn't lied about that. Dobby and Pompey seemed to know literally everything that went on in Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, respectively. And it was Pompey who showed her the lurid story on Harry and his entry into the Tournament in the wizarding paper, _The Daily Prophet_.

Petunia generally liked to learn everything she could about wizarding culture, but she had quickly decided that _The Daily Prophet _was _The Sun_ without page three, and with wizards, and she had never bothered to read it. She knew that the elves in the household did read it, so on their behalf she reluctantly subscribed to it. _I suppose that it makes a great lining for the owl's cages, wherein it finds its proper level. _She read the story with rising indignation. Not for a minute did she think her nephew had told any reporter anything like this; Harry was reserved even with people he knew well. The true nature of its author, Rita Skeeter, wafted off the newspaper like the miasma of a swamp. _One of *those* people. You tell them what they want to hear, or they'll hear it anyway. _

When she asked Harry about it later, he looked thunderous. "She had this pen, a 'Quick-Quote Quill' she called it, and it took down what I said and just twisted everything so that I looked like a complete and utter git! And I _didn't_ have tears in my eyes!"

"I believe you," Petunia said. _Quick-Quote Quill indeed. More like a Quick-Cliche Quill._

"Good, because you're the only one who does – well, you and maybe Dud. But Ron Weasley isn't speaking to me, the 'Puffs hate me, the Slytherins make fun of me, and that awful woman said Hermoine is my girlfriend! What's Dud going say to that? He's going to hate me, too!"

Petunia was startled. "Why would he hate you for that?" she asked.

Harry looked abashed, as if he was aware that he had said too much.

"No reason," he muttered, and fled.

Petunia did what she usually did in such cases: divide and conquer. This involved asking Dudley for information, but not with Harry about. That had become much easier than it used to be, given that the boys were in different Houses. Dudley was unusually subdued when she cornered him. He confirmed that Harry was having a very difficult time with his peers over the Tournament, and unusually, with his Professors. _With the exception of Snape, of course; he's always had a difficult time with him._

"Why is Ron Weasley not speaking to him?" Petunia asked.

"Ron thinks he entered the tournament, and won't admit it."

"Why would he care?" Petunia was astonished.

"Hermione says he's jealous of all the attention Harry gets. Ron's his best friend in Gryffindor, but it's difficult because of that, and because of all those brothers, he doesn't get any attention at home, either." _Well I suppose that's possible_.

"And the 'Puffs?"

Dudley looked away. "The 'Puffs don't get a lot of play at Hogwarts," he said. "They were delighted when they supplied the Hogwarts Triwizard Champion, for once they got some attention, and now they think Harry is trying to steal their thunder."

"I see. It's making life difficult for you in your House, then."

"Nothing I can't manage," Dudley said, but without much conviction. _It's bad, then. Dudley seemed to like his House, too, but this stupid damn competition is ruining it._

"Why did Harry tell me that he thinks you'd hate him when that poisonous troll described Hermione Granger as his girlfriend?"

Dudley turned pale. "No reason," he muttered, just like Harry had. And fled, in exactly the same way.

Petunia blinked. She had plenty to think about in the period before the commencement of the Tournament, especially as Aberforth's report on Hagrid's disclosures in his cups proved highly enlightening.


	32. Chapter 32: THE FRIENDS OF HARRY POTTER

Holy Plot Hole, Batman! You're all right on the money with three vs four dragon problem. Never even occurred to me. At first I thought I would sluff off the fourth dragon as an alternate, but after careful consideration, I've decided I can turn it inside out, and use it as a plot point. Stay tuned.

Having numerous smart and sharp-eyed editors on this story is proving highly instructive, not to mention helpful. Plus really embarrassing. :P

I'm not British and have only been there once, but I've read about the Page Three Girls (yes, they're topless).

Many thanks to all those who reviewed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: THE FRIENDS OF HARRY POTTER

_In which is formed a support group devoted to helping Harry with the tournament, which sounds better than a support group devoted to helping Harry cheat at the tournament._

On the next available day, the group (which had dubbed themselves The Friends of Harry Potter, The Friends for short) had a counsel of war in the drawing room of the Manor. It was attended by Harry, Dudley, Hermione Granger, Petunia, Aberforth, Algy, Pompey and Dobby. Petunia was doubtful about Hermione, but was firmly overruled by both boys; Algy objected to Pompey, but Petunia overruled him; and Pompey managed to object to both Algy and Dobby, and was overruled by the group. Once these points were established, they proceeded to discuss what they knew, and analyze the information.

Aberforth reported that he had managed to get Hagrid drunk during Happy Hour at the Hog's Head, and discovered that the request for nesting dragon mothers was connected to the task – apparently the Champions would be expected to steal a fake egg containing a clue to the next task from each nest. They would not be told which dragon they faced until the day of the task, when they would draw animated miniatures of their dragon from a bag.

"He'd seen the miniatures, he said," Aberforth noted.

"Are they like me?" Algy asked, with interest.

"No, Algy," Aberforth said. "They're not real dragons. No bigger than your hand, and animated by magic."

Petunia expected Algy to be disappointed, because he frequently complained of loneliness (yet another broad hint - among many - that he needed a proper witch to be a familiar to), but he merely looked thoughtful. She thought later that she should have been warned.

The boys and Hermione reported on what they obviously felt was an astounding development: Hagrid had developed a crush on Madame Olympe, the Headmistress of Beauxbatons. Petunia admired his courage, if nothing else; but she got the point immediately. If Hagrid had told Aberforth about the dragons, he had just as likely told Madame Olympe about them, too. Thus Fleur Delacour knew about the dragons.

Dobby then described to the group the movements of Karkaroff, to whom he had attached himself. The Head of Durmstrang had also been seen in the Forbidden Forest, where the dragons were being kept. The conclusion was obvious. Krum knew, too.

This point settled, they then discussed how Harry should handle the task itself. His transfiguration level was still only at the beginning of fourth year, and thus not reliable enough to use that method to retrieve the egg. Aberforth pointed out that the dragons were armoured against most spells, so anything Harry used would have to be aimed at their heads. They debated the use of the Conjunctivitis spell versus several other spells that affected the dragon's eyes. Though Pompey suggested it, Harry would not consider a blinding curse - "They're somebody's mother," as he put it. The Conjunctivitis spell wouldn't be permanent, but it would still scare the dragon, which might make - they thought - too much trouble.

Hermoine's view was that Harry should merely make a token attempt at competition: "After all, no one expects you to do as much as the older contestants, and besides, you were entered by someone else. Just wait for the time to run out."

"Hermione, you're not _serious,_" Harry said, giving her a pained look.

"I certainly am," she said, ruffled. "You agree with me, don't you, Dudley?"

Dudley instantly turned scarlet, and muttered something inaudible. Petunia sensed the overwhelming hostility of the rest of the Friends to this notion, and in order to preserve order, intervened quickly: "That makes all kinds of logical sense, Hermione, I definitely agree; but you can't really expect Harry to deliberately throw the Tournament."

"Why not?" she asked, surprised.

"I was going to say testosterone, but that's not really fair. Let me put it this way: if _you_ were a contestant in the Tournament, would _you_ not try? If the whole school was watching, and your pride was on the line? And if they said, for instance, that a lame sort of effort was all that could be expected of a Muggle-born?"

She had pegged Hermione as very competitive, and highly sensitive to pure-blood scorn; that was confirmed when the girl's eyes widened and she suddenly nodded. "I'd try," she said, conceding the point.

"Of course you would," Petunia said. "We know Harry will try, too, we just need to determine the safest means of him doing so."

Algy then suggested that Harry should throw the dragons' favourite food on the ground to distract them. He happened to know what each dragon favoured: "Lowri likes Welsh rarebit; Hulda, pickled herring; Hong, Peking duck; and Reka just loves goulash, the spicier the better -"

"Algy, I don't know which dragon I'll get," Harry protested. "And I won't know until just before the Task begins."

"Take food for all four, then," said Algy.

"I bet they search the contestants beforehand," Harry said. "And what's more, I'd smell exactly like a deli counter."

Petunia heard Algy say to Aberforth in an undervoice: "What's a deli? And why would anybody want to count it?" and put her head in her hands. The meeting broke up soon afterwards, with an agreement to meet again before the First Task. Algy could be heard extolling the enticing effects of Welsh rarebit for some time thereafter.

At the next meeting a week later, and Harry reported to the Friends that Mad-Eye Moody had pulled him aside after that week's Defense class and suggested that he use his broom in the Task. "Go after the golden egg as if I were hunting for a snitch in a Quidditch match! I thought it was a good idea!"

"Oh, yes, a great idea," Petunia said, sarcastically. "Except Quidditch games don't include giant fire-breathing dragons."

But to Petunia's exasperation, the rest of the group concluded that this was the best idea of the lot. Petunia wondered why Moody, who hadn't struck her as the type to care about the Tournament, or much else other than catching Death Eaters, would help Harry in this manner. Something began niggling uneasily at the back of her brain. She'd missed a piece of information, she thought, but she couldn't quite remember what it was.

While she considered this, the rest of the group began to discuss how Harry should get his broom, and it was Dudley who suggested that he should just use the Moonfleet, which seldom strayed from his side anyway, at least when not constrained. The Friends applauded this notion, and so it was decided; Dudley would take charge of the Moonfleet until Harry's signal.

It was also Dudley who privately told Petunia that Harry had told Cedric Diggory about the dragons. "He wasn't sure he knew," he explained. "Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum do, and that would have put Cedric at an unfair disadvantage."

Petunia sighed and said nothing. He may have been a Mayhew, but it was her opinion that Harry was not really very good at cheating. She didn't feel as sorry about that fact as she thought she would be.

The day of the First Task arrived far too soon for Petunia; she was unable to sleep at least three days beforehand, and had to be dragged bodily to the viewing stands by Pompey. Mrs. Figg attended to help support her, and Aberforth sat with them as well. Petunia invited Dobby to round out the party, much to Pompey's disgust. And because Algy insisted, and was willing to punctuate his insistence with jets of fire, Algy attended as well. When the Task began, and Petunia saw the first dragon, the Swedish blue, she was appalled – it was far bigger than she had anticipated, and it was the smallest of the four, according to Algy. Cedric Diggory drew her as an opponent, and used transfiguration. He got the egg, but the dragon still managed to burn him, to Petunia's horror. Petunia wanted to seize Harry and leave, but it was by far too late. She now wished that she had listened to Hermione in the first place.

Fleur Delacour was next, and drew the large Welsh Green, Lowri. She used what Aberforth described as ensorcelment, and apparently quite effectively; but the sleeping dragon began to snore and set her skirt afire. She used her wand and managed to extinguish the flames quickly. Petunia was simply unable to watch much of the action, but at least Fleur survived.

The next dragon was the Chinese Fireball, and Krum drew this one. The Friends gasped when they announced it, for it meant that the biggest and meanest dragon would fall, by default, to Harry. Krum used the Conjunctivitis spell, but as the Friends had anticipated, the frantic and agitated dragon ran amuck and trampled some of her own eggs; she started issuing agonized jets of fire, and narrowly missed Krum himself with one of them. Algy was horrified: "That's murder!" he cried.

"Shush!" Petunia hissed at him. "She can't help it!"

"I don't mean Hong!" Algy hissed back. "I mean that Romanian git!"

Petunia could hardly disagree with him, but hushed him again, pointing out that he would be ejected from the stands if he made too much noise. He subsided, but as he sat beside her, he was quivering with nerves. _I know how he feels._

The last dragon was ushered out; it was the huge black Hungarian Horntail. It was a third again bigger than the first dragon and it looked fierce and aggressive. Petunia wished she could look away, but she wasn't able to do so. What unfolded next was like an animated nightmare. Harry, looking very small and very young, was escorted out of the tent. The attendants practically pushed him toward the dragon, which was sitting on her eggs and looking impossibly tall and very belligerent, and blowing smoke – and the occasional flame - in Harry's direction.

Harry cried "Accio broom!" and suddenly the Moonfleet burst into view. Harry straddled it and began to fly, circling the Horntail. The dragon's head rose after him as he weaved and dodged, never giving her enough time to draw bead on him. Eventually the dragon lost patience, spread its wings - a fearsome sight - and abandoned her nest to pursue him. Harry and the Moonfleet then zoomed downward, intent on grabbing the golden egg nestled among the others in the nest. The dragon reacted quickly; she sent a jet of flame after Harry, which he dodged. But its great spiked tail spun around and nearly knocked Harry off his broom. Petunia nearly screamed. He clung to the Moonfleet, which whirled around the dragon like a live thing; and he managed to seize the golden egg and flew off with it under his uninjured arm. Several wizards ran forward to restrain the Horntail, which appeared ready to follow him. The roar of the crowd burst against Petunia's ears, and she clapped her hands over them.

Petunia felt distinctly faint, and when Aberforth offered her a flask (which turned out to contain Firewhiskey), she accepted gratefully, though she only took a small sip; she had been unable to eat breakfast that morning, and her stomach was empty. _Not the proper time for you to become roaring drunk, my girl. _Algy was hopping up and down with joy, Dobby was cheering, and even Pompey looked excited, a new first.

Aberforth offered to take Algy and Pompey back to the Manor on his way to the Hog's Head, where he imagined that there would be considerable customer traffic after the successful end of the First Task (Pompey sniffed at the inference that he needed an escort). This would allow Petunia and Mrs. Figg to go and see Harry, and inspect him for damage, he said. Petunia thanked him, got shakily to her feet and began to pick her way through the crowd, Mrs. Figg trailing behind her. They found Harry in the medical tent with Madame Pomfrey. He had a shallow scratch from the Horntail on his shoulder, but otherwise seemed unhurt, though in a state of high excitement, and unable to let go of the golden egg that he still clutched to his chest. Dudley joined them, grinning with relief; he had been in charge of the Moonfleet, and had released it as soon as Harry had shouted.

"Did you see, Mum?" he cried. "It worked!"

"I saw," Petunia said. "You were very good, Harry, though you scared several years off my life."

Harry grinned. Hermione Granger, and _mirabile dictu_, Ron Weasley, suddenly appeared, and the children began laughing and chattering; Petunia, still feeling dizzy, left them to it. Mrs. Figg thought that they should stay for the judging, but Petunia knew if she did, she would disgrace herself by being sick. In fact, she didn't believe she could walk home, and so they found a floo. Petunia was sure that would the last straw for her stomach, as indeed it was.

Petunia begged Mrs. Figg to eat the celebratory luncheon that the Manor house elves had prepared – it looked delicious – but then told her frankly that she had to go to bed, right now, very sorry. And she did, then and there.

Petunia awoke in the dark. Someone, probably one of the house elves, had drawn both sets of curtains around her four-poster bed. It was a large, antique one that had been in pieces on the floor of the room when she had first moved in, and which she had instantly coveted. As a child, she longed for a four-poster, but her parents had neither the room nor the money to accommodate one, and Vernon had dismissed them as 'stuff and nonsense.' This one probably dated back to Tudor times; it was of dark, elaborately carved oak. The inner bed-curtains were of a transparent white material; the outer ones were heavy, embroidered brocade. Petunia herself rarely drew both sets; she found it too stuffy. That had awoken her – well, that and something else. That niggling anxiety at the back of her mind had leaped to the front of it, and asked her a question: "Why were there four dragons?"

There were only three Champions, but the wizards who had brought the dragons from Romania before the drawing from the Goblet had brought four. A reserve, in case of accident? Having seen the dragons, and sampled how difficult they must be to handle, Petunia doubted that. Someone had told them to bring four, someone who must have known that there would be four Champions. That same person had probably put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire.

Petunia was on her feet in an instant. She was terribly hungry, but she ignored that; she knew that she had to catch Charlie Weasley before he left the Forbidden Forest. Algy was supposed to be sleeping on a large padded cast iron stand-alone perch that dated back to Cressida's time and sat in the corner of her bedroom. But no, she discovered him curled on the rickety daybed at the foot of the four-poster. Petunia liked the daybed and planned to have it braced and re-upholstered, but alas, Algy liked it, too. For once, though, she was glad he was close by and didn't complain. She roused him and seized her broom. Dawn was just breaking outside.

Algy flew beside her in the lightening sky, and directed her to the proper spot. To her vast relief, the dragons and their handlers were still there, though Charlie was taken aback when he saw her. "Mrs. Dursley!" he said. "I'm sorry, but I can't take Algy back, if that's what you're here about."

"That's _not_ why I'm here," she told him. She noted that he looked exhausted. He explained to her that Hong's condition had prevented them from leaving yesterday; her eyes were still sore and swollen from the Conjunctivitis spell, and she was despondent over the eggs she had trampled in her panic. The handlers had been unable to treat her eyes, or ease her symptoms, as she would not let them near her. They did not want to stun her, either, in her current condition. Petunia felt a sudden sympathy with the unfortunate dragon, her young killed and endangered by the wizarding world's desire for dangerous entertainment. "Did any of her eggs survive?"

"Yes, some did," Charlie said.

Petunia called Algy forward. "Explain to Hong that they just want to treat her eyes with an ointment that will relieve the pain, and point out to her that she still has eggs that need her protection," she directed him. Algy, with the assistance of Lowri, began a three-way conversation with the dejected Fireball. Her vocalizations started out in a very dispirited way, it seemed to Petunia, but they gradually became more hopeful.

Algy flew down from Lowri's back to perch on Petunia's shoulder. "She'll allow you to anoint her eyes," he said to Charlie. "We pointed out to her that she needs to see to protect the rest of her eggs. She hadn't even realized that any of them had survived, you see. Any wrong moves, though, Charlie, and you're a flaming kebab, and the rest of the dragons, including me, will join in to help her with the roasting. They've had the biscuit with this business."

Charlie, looking nervously at Hong, whispered: "Tell her that it will sting at first."

It did, but she bore it stoically. Within a half hour, she was curled tightly around her surviving eggs, fast asleep. It was obvious that she and the other dragons weren't going anywhere immediately.

"You owe me one, Charlie," Petunia said, "and I'm collecting. I need an answer to a question, and the question is this: who ordered _four_ dragons for the Tournament?"

"My boss back in Romania took the order, I'd have to ask him," Charlie said.

"I need to know and it's important," Petunia said. "Somebody knew that there would be four Champions ahead of time, and I have to know who that was. Somebody's deliberately put Harry in a lot of danger."

Charlie looked grim, and nodded. Petunia said, "Please keep it confidential as to why you're asking."

He nodded again, and Petunia said seriously, changing the subject, "Your mother tells me that you are very fond of dragons."

"Yes, of course," Charlie said; he seemed surprised.

"Well, then, I don't think these four have been treated very well, especially Hong."

Charlie appeared never to have considered this. "And frankly," Petunia added, "I've decided that Algy is staying with me permanently. He drives me mad at times, but I'm not sending him back to a place where he might not be well-treated. After all, he was bred by my family, and I have a responsibility to him, I think. Not that I'd tell him that, of course."

Charlie looked stricken. "I never thought..." he faltered.

"I've noticed that wizards don't seem to think very much," Petunia said. "In general, I mean. Magic seems to blunt it, for some reason. But you might want to consider what I've said. Next time the likes of Dumbledore and Company want to promote inter-magical co-operation or whatever the hell the explanation for this contest is, they should to do it without dragons. And if they ask, tell them to go hang macaroni from the sky, or something equally useful."

Charlie gave her a chastened smile. "I don't get the say, Mrs. Dursley."

"But you will one day," Petunia said, smiling at him. "I see you running the place eventually. And when you do, you will be the greatest dragon protector _ever_."

Charlie eyes shone. "I hope you have some seer ability," he said seriously, and Petunia laughed. "I hope I do, too," she said, "And let me know, as quickly as possible, about what your boss says."

But even Petunia was surprised by the message that came back from Charlie four days later.


	33. Chapter 33: THE TRIUMPH OF THE SWOT

Cherry: Mr. Ifans' first name was Harri (Welsh spelling).

Wikipedia Saves My Bacon Dept.: Moi, Romania was under Turkish rule for over two hundred years, and so kebabs (_frigarui)_ are part of the local cuisine. I guess Algy acquired a taste for them while in residence. No, I didn't know this when I mentioned kebabs. Stab in the dark (_le mot juste_, in this case)

And yes, that's the _second _time I've confused Romania and Bulgaria. And after you already told me once...pretty stupid of me. :P

Many thanks to all who took the time to review.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: THE TRIUMPH OF THE SWOT

_In which the plain/smart girl fantasy causes a boatload of trouble for both Hermione and Petunia; and Petunia and Sirius exchange painfully Freudian Christmas gifts._

The Friends met a day or so later to inspect the clue to the Second Task and discuss the information Petunia had received from Romania. Petunia was rather bemused when Ron Weasley joined them, but she made no comment. Harry placed the golden egg on the table, and they all poked and prodded it curiously. When opened, it gave a piercing eldritch screech that had them all holding their ears, and begging Harry to shut it again, which he promptly did.

"What was _that_?" Dudley asked in alarm, and Harry just shrugged.

"The next task is after Christmas," said Petunia, "so we'll have some time to consider it. Luckily, I think."

"So it would seem," Aberforth said. "Any word from Romania?"

"Yes, Charlie's boss told him that the four dragons were ordered specifically by no less than Mr. Bartemius Crouch."

"Are you sure it wasn't just a precaution?" Aberforth asked, "He definitely strikes me as a belt and suspenders man."

"I'm sure," Petunia said. "Apparently when they talked to Dumbledore originally, he mentioned three dragons. They had to be nesting mothers, and when Crouch subsequently demanded four, the only available other one was the Horntail. Charlie's boss told him that he advised Crouch very strictly against it; he said that in his opinion the Horntail was entirely too volatile. Crouch insisted. They needed _four_ dragons, he said."

This information was met by silence. "Why?" asked Harry bluntly. "I don't even _know_ him! Why would he care if I'm in the Tournament or not?"

"It's a very good question," Petunia said pensively, but in the following days, they found very few answers. A letter to Sirius did elicit some information about Crouch's past – his only son had been accused of being a Death Eater in Voldemort's time, and confined to Azkaban; his wife had died, and he was a widower. Petunia took Pompey aside and asked him if – ahem – Calpurnia had mentioned anything about life _chez_ Crouch. He shook his head: "She's very secretive," he said. Algy, who overheard this exchange, suggested that he threaten the unfortunate Winky with a roasting if she didn't divulge what she knew. Pompey threw him an exasperated glance and hissed: "Be quiet, you bone-headed lizard!"

Algy was indignant: "I am _not_ bone-headed! And I'm just trying to help!"

"I know you are, Algy," Petunia said soothingly. "But I couldn't allow you to hurt Calpurnia, you know."

"If she knows something, why not?" Algy was puzzled.

"If she knows something, she'd die before she'd betray her former master," Pompey said grimly. "We need another way to get the information."

It was Hermione's suggestion that they try Percy Weasley instead. He was Mr. Crouch's assistant, she said, after all.

"Good night, nurse," muttered Petunia. "He's impossible; or at least I found him that way. Can _you_ find out anything from him?" she said to Ron, who seemed taken aback by this suggestion. Hermione, however, intervened: "All you need to do is flatter him a little; I'll see what I can do."

Rather to Petunia's surprise, the Yule Ball gradually superseded the Second Task as a topic of conversation with the boys; and in fact, with nearly everyone else. As a Champion, Harry had to attend whether he wanted to do so or not. Dudley, as a fourth year student, could also be present. Petunia had already purchased new dress robes for both the boys that fall – bottle green for Harry, and dark grey for Dudley, suitable for formal occasions. She noticed that Dudley had become increasingly nervous as the date for the Ball approached, and asked Harry why.

Harry laughed. "He wants Hermione to go with him to the Yule Ball."

Petunia raised her brows. "And do you think she will?"

"If he ever drums up enough courage to ask her, yes, probably."

"Is she likely to get another invitation?" Petunia asked, surprised.

"Oh, sure," Harry said. "Ron Weasley will ask her, too, I think; though I think he'll try the Beauxbatons Champion first. A part-Veela, you know! He goes literally cross-eyed when she goes by. It's the funniest thing I've ever seen. I can't see him being successful there, though, so Dudley will have competition. Neville might ask her, as well."

Petunia was confounded. She could not see why Hermione Granger, toothy and frizzy-haired and pedantic, had boys competing for her. _I never did, at her age, and she's *not* more attractive than I was! Oh my God; I'm jealous of a schoolgirl! A new low. _

"Why doesn't Dudley ask her, then?" she said.

"He's afraid she'll say no. I mean, how awkward is that?" _It's very awkward indeed._

Petunia was a devoted parent, but she was not a besotted one. She doubted Hermione would prefer Dudley over the more popular Ron. Dudley, she thought, didn't have the sort of pretty-pretty male looks beloved of adolescent girls. _To be fair, neither does Ron Weasley; but he's closer to it, and he's lively and amusing. Of course, Dudley was capable of that, too; but only with people he knew well._

"And what about you, Harry?"

Harry's smile disappeared. "Oh, I don't know," he said vaguely. "I might ask somebody. I might not."

Petunia translated this without any problem. "Oh? And what's her name?"

Harry scowled. "She doesn't have-I mean, there isn't anyone!"

Petunia pretended to accept this, then asked Dudley later about who Harry intended to ask. Dudley laughed. "Cho Chang, I imagine," he said. "She's the Ravenclaw seeker. _Very_ pretty."

"Do you think she'd accept?"

"Nope," said Dudley. "Her steady is Cedric Diggory. Harry may be a Champion, but so is Diggory. Is he tall, good-looking, a seventh year, and a Quidditch House Team Captain? No, he's not. She's a fifth year, too. Harry will have to find someone in his own weight class."

Petunia said casually, "And who are you asking?"

Dudley shrugged. "Dunno that I'm going," he muttered.

"Shame, really," Petunia said. "I was prepared to teach you two to dance."

Dudley looked astonished. "You know how to dance?"

"Indeed, I do," Petunia said. "Your grandparents paid for dancing lessons for Lily and for me. I'm quite prepared to demonstrate my technique for you, and teach you to lumber in tune to the music." She demonstrated a deliberately lop-sided pirouette, and Dudley grinned. Petunia was happy to see it. She wanted to encourage him to ask Hermione Granger, if that's who he preferred to take to the Yule Ball, but she was afraid. What if it was the wrong advice and ended in his humiliation? She hated to interfere to that end. As it happened, turnabout was not fair play; Dudley had no problem at all in interfering in _her_ love life.

"Who are _you _asking, Mum?" he had inquired.

"I'm going as a chaperon," Petunia said repressively. Minerva had requested this; and since the Hogwarts professors were still tutoring her for free for the most part, Petunia felt that she could not refuse. She wondered rather wistfully if someone would ask her to dance; she had always enjoyed dancing, but Vernon had refused to participate in anything she did well.

"Chaperons can take an escort," Dudley said. "I asked Professor McGonagall on your behalf."

"And why would you do that?" Petunia was astonished.

Dudley tried looking innocent. "Sirius asked me to."

"Oh?" Petunia said blankly.

"Yeah, he's trying to arrange for a weekend pass from the happy hatch so he can attend."

"Don't call it that, Dudley!"

"_He_ calls it that," Dudley said. _He would._

This news caused Petunia some unease, and later, on her monthly visit to St. Mungo's, she brought it up with the mind healing team. "That healer – Abelard – he sent me a letter saying that he thinks that I should take Sirius to the Yule Ball as my escort, and he'll give him a pass to attend if I agree. I don't like the idea, but he's insisting."

After rather a long pause, Hector said: "Why don't you like the idea?"

"It'll give _him_ ideas," Petunia said.

"Such as?" This from Marcella.

Petunia sighed. "He still thinks we should get married."

"And you don't?" Hector asked.

"No, I don't. I've had one disaster, I certainly don't need another."

"Perhaps Abelard had stabilized him. He seems to think so, from what I've heard."

"And the word is 'stabilized'," Petunia said. "He can't be cured. I like Sirius, and I feel sorry for him. But I don't feel obligated to marry him."

"Maybe you need to tell him that – " Marcella suggested. _Why do I feel that there are two conversations going on here?_

"Same thing happens every time I try to talk to him about anything important; he starts arguing. He's far more articulate and determined than I am, and I end up backed into a corner." _I hate that feeling._

"You seem pretty articulate to me," said Titus, speaking for the first time. "and pretty determined."

"When Sirius is in a manic phase, just try to get a word in," Petunia said darkly.

"You're avoiding the problem," Marcella observed, and Petunia knew she was right. She eventually agreed to allow Sirius to escort her to the Ball, and 'have a talk' with him afterwards. She dreaded the prospect.

Petunia then received a letter from Sirius himself, in which he dropped fairly broad hints that if he managed the pass from St. Luc's for the Yule Ball, he wanted to stay in his old cottage on the Manor grounds. Petunia replied cheerfully that she would be very happy for him if his condition had improved, and the pass was issued; but pointedly ignored the hints. _No thin edge of the wedge, Sirius. Not this time._

Petunia had never attended a formal wizarding event before, and was rather unnerved by the prospect. She had no clue how to properly dress for the Yule Ball, and hesitated to ask any of the Hogwarts staff for assistance – female academics seemed to her to be noticeably dowdy. So were Molly Weasley, and alas, Mrs. Figg. After some consideration, she asked Andromenda Tonks to give her some guidance. Andromeda had a rather severe style, but Petunia thought it suited her, and her clothes complimented her looks. Rather to her surprise, Andromeda not only agreed to help, but showed up with her daughter Dora in tow. This was, she said, to keep the choices a little more fashionable.

Petunia was doubtful; Dora dressed like an ordinary Muggle adolescent – which was to say, Goth crossed with grunge - which wouldn't, she thought, suit her. And indeed, Andromeda and Dora agreed upon very little. Petunia thought that they were very much on each other's nerves, and deduced that Remus Lupin lay at the root of their dispute. _Not going there, ladies, thank you_.

After some sharp exchanges of metaphoric gunfire, _les femmes_ Tonks finally negotiated a settlement on a suitable look for Petunia, a blue-grey robe with dropped shoulders. It flattered Petunia's fair colouring, and her slim figure. They then inspected the Mayhew vault for some suitable jewellery, and discovered a set of aquamarines set in white gold. Petunia thought that the look was rather effective, and felt better about facing her first formal Ball.

The boys, however, had hit some roadblocks. When Dudley finally mustered enough courage to ask Hermione to accompany him, she told him regretfully that she had already agreed to go with someone else. To his mother's dismay, he was thoroughly despondent over this.

"Is it Ron Weasley?" Petunia asked Harry.

"No," Harry said. "Ron doesn't have a date either. He did ask Hermione, but she told him the same thing she told Dudley. She won't say who it is."

Petunia, well aware that she was behaving like the over-controlling mother that everybody (including herself) accused her of being, cornered Hermione and asked her about the Ball. She suspected that Hermione might not in fact have a date; but on that score, she was proven wrong.

"Actually, Viktor Krum asked me," Hermione finally confessed. "I've seen him in the library rather a lot, and we talked quite a bit. He's quite nice, really. I was very surprised when he asked me, and – well, I wondered if anyone else would. So I said yes."

Petunia was sympathetic, but she also recognized the plain/smart girl fantasy in action, having suffered from it herself in the past. Viktor Krum was considered the most desirable date among the Hogwarts girls, or so she had been told by an amused Madam Pomfrey. (The Hogwarts healer had been exasperated by the number of female students who had tried to improve their appearances by clumsy spell work, and was kept busy repairing the damage.) For Hermione Granger to appear before the female half of the school on Krum's arm would be the triumph of the swot, indeed.

"I'm sorry about Dudley," Hermione said awkwardly, correctly discerning the reason for Petunia's inquiries. "I would have gone to the Ball with him if he had asked me earlier."

"No harm; you were quite right to accept Krum's invitation if Dudley was slow," Petunia said briskly, but her heart sank. Dudley might have had a chance versus Ron Weasley, but Viktor Krum? _Not likely_. Yet Petunia promised to keep the identity of Hermione's escort secret. _Why should I ruin her moment of social triumph? I'm betting she hasn't had many, or perhaps any, in the past._

Dudley now decided that the Ball was utterly stupid, and he no longer wished to attend. Petunia wanted encourage him to ask another girl, but didn't know how to do so in a way that he would accept without embarrassment. Harry saved her the trouble: "Dud, forget that," he said, "you have to attend. You know I don't have a choice, and if I'm going to make an amazing giant arse of myself by dancing in public, then the least you can do for me is be present and lead the chorus of jeers from my peers. Come on, now."

"Nobody in my House will give me the time of day," Dudley pointed out.

"Yes, and I know it's my fault," said Harry. "Sorry, coz. You know what they say: you choose your friends and not your relations."

This elicited a slight smile from Dudley, and a few days later, Petunia was delighted to learn that he had acquired a date, a third-year Ravenclaw whose name was not familiar to her. She asked Harry if he knew her.

"Only by reputation," he said, rather evasively.

"And what sort of reputation is that?" Petunia asked.

Harry opened his mouth, and then closed it. "Ask her to tea on Sunday, and see for yourself," he said.

And so Petunia did, innocently enough. The child was a blonde with a head of curls and big blue eyes. Her name, she said in an abstracted voice, was Luna Lovegood. _That must make school a load of fun – for her classmates_. She was wearing a necklace of Butterbeer corks – the effect was definitely downmarket – and a pair of radish earrings, which in Petunia's opinion had a certain dada-esque charm. She eventually concluded that Luna did, too; though at first Petunia wondered what on earth Dudley was thinking. Aberforth, who was present, seemed rather saddened by the child; he later told her that Luna reminded him of his own sister. _I never asked him if he had any relatives, dammit. I just assumed that he had none._

"Do you know her family?" Petunia asked.

"I've met Xeno Lovegood, yes," Aberforth said. "That's her father, I think. He publishes a broadsheet called 'The Quibbler'; it's full of the most utter rubbish. Not mean like 'The Prophet', just absurd. An easy bloke to laugh at, but the thought of him bringing up a child by himself – I think I heard that he's a widower - is pretty damn sobering."

"Especially for the child herself," Petunia said.

Luna had looked around the Manor and had seemed impressed, especially by Algy. The feeling was reciprocated by the little dragon, and for a happy minute Petunia thought that she might have found him his witch. But no; he rejected Luna – very reluctantly, he said, because he liked her very much – because she was not a Mayhew. Petunia sighed.

Luna had told her that Dudley had rescued her from a party of bullies by 'pretending' (as she put it) that he had asked her to the Yule Ball. "It was very nice of him," she said. "But I don't expect him to follow through."

Petunia protested that Dudley had informed her that Luna _was_ his partner for the Ball. Luna seemed quite astonished, but pleased. "He's very gallant, I think," she said happily.

Dudley confirmed the story to her later: "There was this bunch of girls, mostly Slytherin, but a few Ravenclaws mixed in – that shocked me, don't they have any House loyalty? – making fun of her because she didn't have a date. She's only third year, so what's the harm, but I think they bully her regularly, and it was just one more opportunity to make her feel bad. She didn't seem to react much, I thought. No tears, or anything. _And you'd know all about weeping females, my son, your mother is certainly one of them_. Anyway, they got so bitchy that I opened my fat yap and said to give it a rest because she was going with me. That allowed them to make fun of me, too, a good bit, too, and so I pointed out to the Ravenclaws that they should be supporting one of their own. _And are the Hufflepuffs supporting you, Dudley? In a House whose first characteristic is supposedly loyalty, too._

"I'm sure they reacted well."

"They flounced about and sniffed a lot, but they were a bit embarrassed, I think." _You're probably too kind. "_Girls are really awful to each other, aren't they?"

Petunia had a suddenly vivid and unlovely flashback to her own adolescence. "Yes. Yes, they are. I'm glad you asked her. Now that you've done it, make sure you do it right."

"Mum!"

"You know what I mean. I expect you to behave like a gentleman. Take her a corsage. Dance with her, and make sure some other people do, too. Don't signal to your friends that you think the girl's eccentric, or mock her, that sort of thing."

The wounded look Dudley gave her made her feel ashamed. Indeed, Harry took her to task for it later, when Dudley had gone to class. "Really, Tante, after he'd gone to all that trouble, did you think he was going to be a berk about it?"

"Sorry, Harry. I was thinking about the days when I was that age. I didn't mean to hurt his feelings," Petunia said. "And what about you?"

Harry's face fell. "I got turned down," he muttered. "She was already going with someone else."

"Try again," Petunia said, trying to be encouraging. "There must be someone."

"Ginny Weasley is going with Neville," said Harry. Petunia liked Neville, and was pleased for him, but she realized the implications of this statement. _No easy out_.

"I'm sure someone will be pleased to go with you," she said. "Just give it a try."

"When you ask them, it's always so public," Harry said. Petunia had never considered it from the male point of view before, and now that she thought about it, she supposed it must be just as bad for them. "Try someone in your own House, then. A little more private."

Harry didn't look hopeful, but later he reported a successful invitation, to Petunia's distinct relief. He had asked the Gryffindor Patel twin, Parvati, and had been accepted; and had even managed a date for Ron Weasley in her Ravenclaw sister, Padma. She expressed her relief, but Harry's reaction surprised her.

"What, no lecture, like you did with Dud? Aren't you going to tell me to be a gentleman, and treat Parvati properly?"

"I rather think Parvati can look after herself very handily," Petunia said. "Luna I'm not so sure about."

"Well, you needn't worry," Harry said, nodding to show he got the point. "Luna has an armour all her own."

On the Sirius front, he had taken the hint, and in a new letter, told her that he had engaged a room at the Three Broomsticks over Christmas. When had Sirius ever taken a hint before? Petunia thought he must be feeling better indeed. This new letter disdained further hints and asked outright to spend Christmas Day at the Manor. Petunia was reluctant, not because she didn't want to see Sirius, but because she feared he might get - yet again - the wrong idea. But she felt that she couldn't turn him away at Christmas, and so she agreed, but took the precaution of inviting Mrs. Figg and Minerva McGonagal to lunch as well.

On Christmas morning, Petunia and boys opened their gifts. Algy was there, too, and excited about it: he had seen two gifts for himself under the tree. One was a large fleece-lined dog bed (designed for a Great Dane), which Petunia hoped would wean him from the attractions of the daybed. The other was a bib – Algy was a bit of a messy eater – for mealtimes, from the boys, who had managed to convince Winky to embroider on it, in rather tipsy letters of red wool: "SAINT GEORGE IS A WANKER."

"Tasteful!" said Petunia.

"It can be used as a cape, too, if you prefer, Algy," Harry said. Algy was not only delighted with the gift, he heartily agreed with the sentiment.

Petunia then told Algy that Hagrid requested his presence – he was eager to hear about the Romanian reserve and all the details of dragon husbandry literally from the dragon's mouth, so to speak. Algy liked Hagrid and was flattered, and Petunia relieved that the little dragon would not encounter Sirius, which was the point of the exercise from her point of view.

When Sirius appeared at the door for Christmas lunch, Petunia scarcely recognized him. He looked tanned and healthy, and seemed unusually calm. The boys were delighted to see him, and he had brought gifts for all the family. The boy's gifts were books and Quidditch supplies; they gave him a handsome silk scarf, which he immediately wound around his neck. He gave Petunia a beautiful grey lace fan, on delicate mother-of-pearl sticks, which looked it came from Paris; she gave him a carved dogwood box for his wand. He seemed quite pleased with it, to her relief.

Sirius seemed surprised by the arrival of the two older ladies for lunch, but he was on his best behaviour and greeted them politely. After lunch, he and Minerva debated, at some length, how best to trigger Petunia's animagus form. Petunia was not of the opinion that she would ever manage this, but she was pleased to see Sirius happy and animated, and found the debate very interesting.

After tea, Minerva left for the Castle, and Mrs. Figg retired to her room for a nap. The rest of the party prepared for the Ball. The boys looked very smart, Petunia thought, as they left to pick up their partners. And Sirius, dressed in his best, also looked very handsome; but Petunia felt uneasy. _Aren't I just like Hermione Granger? The idea of me attending a Ball on the arm of a handsome attentive man is practically irresistible. The plain/smart girl fantasy strikes again._

And then, just when they were well on their way, and through the door of the Manor, out of the corner of her eye Petunia saw a gargoyle perched on the gatepost. _That's odd, there's no gargoyle there usually, is there? _And then, as they went down the path to the gate, the gargoyle resolved itself into Algy, smoke drifting around him, his eyes flashing yellow in the dusk, like a harbinger of doom.


	34. Chapter 34: THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

Moi: I had hoped that at least one British reader – if there were any past chapter one - would explain the bit about Saint George, who is the patron saint of England. He's famous for being a dragon-slayer, and is usually portrayed astride his horse, stabbing a lance into a small, inoffensive-looking (very Algy-like) dragon. In Shakespeare, all those medieval kings yell: "St. George for England!" just before they slaughter the French or are slaughtered by them, whichever is relevant on the day in question. (Damn; when you have to explain the jokes, it means they aren't funny.)

Rosa Mundi: You will have to keep reading to see what happens. But if you can come up with a better summary, I'm all ears.

Many thanks for the reviews, those who did so. I always appreciate it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

_In which Petunia has to deal with an infuriated dragon, a despondent suitor, a crazed bureaucrat, and a mad Hogwarts DADA Professor (or is that redundant?); in other words, just a normal day in the wizarding world._

Petunia felt her heart sink. _Here comes trouble on the wing; I should've known better. _Algy hopped about abruptly to face them, and said in an ominous tone to Petunia: "You might well hide your face."

"I am _not _hiding my face!" Petunia said furiously, mainly because she had been doing just that.

"You are! You lied to me!" he cried.

"I did not lie to anyone; but this is not the time, Algy, we're going out."

"To the Yule Ball, yes, I know that much."

Sirius was staring up at the furious Algy. "Oh!" he said. "That's Cressida's sport dragon!"

Petunia cringed. Algy's _bête noire_ was people speaking about him as if he himself could not talk.

"And that must be the crazy wizard!" he responded furiously.

Sirius laughed. "Present!" he cried. Algy lashed his tail, not at all appeased.

"You knew I wanted to be introduced to him!" he said to Petunia.

"Algy, I didn't want you to harass him about your witch – it's embarrassing!" Petunia said pleadingly.

"It's not the slightest bit embarrassing!"

"For _you_," Petunia muttered. "For me, it's a different story."

"Wait a minute," said Sirius, looking confused. "What are we talking about?"

"We are talking about _my_ witch," Algy said angrily. "Petunia knows that."

"I thought Petunia was your witch?" Sirius asked.

"No, she isn't!" Algy cried. "I mean the baby!"

Sirius looked at Petunia, his brows raised. "Is there something I don't know about going on here?" he asked.

Petunia closed her eyes, and only opened them again with the greatest reluctance. "Algy wants a witch that he can be a familiar to," she explained. "I'm Muggle-born; Dudley's overweight; Harry's near-sighted and has knobbly knees, so none of us measure up to his standards, he says. He's _not_ superficial, mind you. So he has taken to harassing visitors to my home, to determine whether they are suitable fathers for a baby he wants me to have. He's demanding a witch, I might add, and he's not prepared to accept anything else."

Sirius gave a great shout of laughter. Petunia watched his paroxysms of amusement stonily. She had a distinct feeling that all this hilarity would be short-lived. She was right.

"Well, Algy," he said, after he had finished laughing, and with a graceful bow to the little dragon, "will I do?"

But Algy was not to be placated; he was in a right royal snit, and he didn't like to be laughed at, either. Petunia seldom did so, preferring to use sarcasm when dealing with him; he took it seriously, and thus his feelings weren't hurt.

"I doubt it," he said shortly. "The boys have told me about you. So has Pompey. And Scipio."

"Nothing bad, I hope," Sirius said, still cheerfully.

"You're bonkers," Algy was blunt. "And so was your whole family. My witch is not going inherit that."

Sirius's grin faded. "You do have a point," he said, in a downcast tone. Petunia remembered what Andromeda Tonks had said about Sirius's changeable moods. _It just took a word or a look to depress him, she said, and I think that I've just seen an example of it._

"Algy, we're leaving," Petunia said, steering Sirius through the gate.

Algy flew after them. He was obviously very angry, though Petunia was not exactly sure why.

"We have things to discuss first!" he cried.

"Not _now_!"

But Algy would not turn back, even though Petunia and Sirius began to walk toward the Castle. He flew circles around them, still complaining bitterly. "Algy!" Petunia said, now regretting that she had committed herself to keeping him. "One more word, and I swear, it's Romania!"

At that very moment, they heard someone running down the path toward them; a man burst into sight, and ran straight into Sirius, nearly bowling him over. Sirius staggered; the other man sprawled at his feet.

"What on earth - !" Petunia exclaimed. _What next?_

The other man seemed dazed; Petunia used _Lumos _to get a look at him. Algy stopped scolding and landed on her shoulder to peer curiously down at the stranger. Except he wasn't a stranger: though Petunia recognized him with some difficulty, it was Bartemius Crouch.

Hermione had made inquiries with Percy Weasley, but the only thing she had learned was that Crouch was ill, and not coming in to work. And yet, here he was, on the footpath outside Hogsmeade, at night – Christmas night, to be precise. He was very thin, Petunia noted, and quite disheveled; his clothes were torn. The precise grooming that had distinguished him in the past was gone. His hair and mustache were now white, or as Petunia suspected, no longer dyed. He gave an inarticulate cry when Petunia brought her lit wand close to his face and brought his arm up to shield his eyes.

"Mr. Crouch!" Petunia said. "What are you doing here?"

"Mrs. Dursley!" he cried. "Hide me, quickly! I beg you! They're after me!"

Indeed, they could hear someone coming down the path. Without further discussion, Sirius took one of Crouch's arms, and gestured for Petunia to take the other. They dragged the bedraggled man off the path, and behind a tree. Petunia whispered to Algy: "Fly ahead, and start a small fire farther up the path. Double back here when you've done it."

Algy spread his wings and flew silently away. They waited, holding their breaths. Crouch trembled like a leaf, but without any noise. The sounds came closer – a distinct thunk, thunk, _thunk_, as if someone had a cane. _Or a wooden leg._

The pursuer came abreast of the tree they were hiding behind and hesitated, holding still and listening. Petunia feared he would be on them in another minute. And then with a blessedly loud bang, light exploded farther down the path. In the brief illumination, Petunia saw the pursuer's face. He grunted and hurried onwards. A few moments more, and Algy glided out of the night to perch on Petunia's shoulder. She patted him silently.

There would be only a little time before the pursuer realized that he had been duped, so they apparated, the fainting Crouch between them, back to the Manor. Pompey, to say the least of it, was surprised to see them. And a little house elf broke out of the group and embraced Crouch. "Master!" she cried.

"Not now, Winky!" Petunia said. "We have to get him out of here, right now!"

"We should be safe enough here, don't you think?" Sirius said, surprised.

"We're not," Petunia said in a low voice. "That was Moody on his trail." She could not describe to Sirius the utter malevolence of the face illuminated by the dragonfire; it had made her catch her breath.

With Sirius's help, she dragged Crouch to the fireplace. "Pompey, remember, you saw and heard nothing; Mrs. Figg is asleep; and the rest of us have gone to the Ball." Pompey nodded; he was invariably calm in times of crisis, Petunia noted gratefully. "Winky, Algy, you come with us. Quickly!" _The two chatterers can't be left behind_; _besides which, Moody may be able to recognize dragonfire_.

Then she turned to the fireplace and cried: "Number Seven, Wisteria Walk!"

They tumbled out of the fireplace into a dark suburban house, which smelled powerfully of cats. "Where are we?" Sirius asked.

"Arabella's house," Petunia whispered, though there was no real reason why she should. She immediately cast a charm to obscure the windows, and motioned Sirius to bring Crouch. They let themselves out of the house quietly, Petunia locking it carefully behind them. They then crossed the street, and turned the corner onto Privet Drive. The gate of Number Four loomed out of the dark to their right.

_How very forlorn it looks! I lived here for years, and yet I feel no connection to it, not like I do with the Manor. It's to me like Azkaban is to Sirius; the place I was imprisoned in the past. A place in which I was powerless. It makes me shiver to see it.  
_

She opened the gate and then the door with _Alohomora_, and motioned Sirius, with Crouch on his back, and Winky clutching his robe, through it. Algy, for once quiet and watchful, sat on Petunia's shoulder as they followed. She locked the doors behind them, and cast the same spell that she had at Mrs. Figg's home to disguise the lights.

The house smelled musty and dusty. _I really should rent it out; it's mouldering away like this, and it shouldn't be. _Sirius deposited Crouch on the chesterfield in the lounge, and Winky ran to the kitchen for water. Petunia hoped the water in the house still worked; she could not remember if it had been shut off.

Sirius looked at her. He had questioned nothing they had done from the time they had stumbled upon Crouch to date, to Petunia's considerable surprise. _But now he wants some answers, and why shouldn't he?_

"Have we kidnapped the Minister for Magical Law Enforcement?" he asked her.

Petunia couldn't help but smile. "It would seem so."

"I suppose you have your reasons, Mrs. Dursley?"

"You suppose correctly, Mr. Black. Let's see what he has to say."

Winky brought water – it was still turned on, thank heaven – and they managed to revive Crouch, not that it was much help; he was clearly off his head. "Black!" he cried, when he saw Sirius. "It's Moody! He's going to kill me!"

"Why would he want to do that, Mr. Crouch?" Petunia asked him.

Crouch groaned. "He's always hated me; I tried to save him, I promised his mother I would try, but he's become so powerful, I can't keep him subjugated anymore. At the Quidditch World Cup, he got loose, I had the devil's time to find him – " He rambled on like that for some time. His forehead was cool; and though he shivered like a mad thing, it was not a fever. In fact, despite her lessons from Madame Pomfrey, Petunia was not at all sure what ailed him, except that it was obviously magical and not physical.

Sirius knew. "He's been Crucio'd," he told her. "See the trembling limbs? That's a sign. Several times, and by a powerful wizard, I'd say."

"Why on earth would Moody Crucio him?"

Sirius shrugged, and Petunia tried asking Crouch directly. But Crouch continued to ramble in a disjointed manner, and didn't answer, and so Petunia decided she might as well ask him the question that had bedeviled her for so long: "Mr. Crouch, why did you order four dragons from Romania?"

Crouch seemed to have a brief lucid moment as his eyes looked into hers. "They ordered me to get four," he cried. "They said there would be four Champions. I didn't want to. That boy's far too young, he might be hurt; and that would reflect badly on the Ministry. The_ Prophet_ would have a field day! But they forced me! They wanted him to compete! I don't know why."

"Did they Imperius you?" Sirius asked sharply, but Crouch's brief spell of lucidity flickered out as quickly as it had come and he was off again, wild and incoherent. They couldn't get a straight answer.

"He needs a healer," Petunia said.

"It's Christmas night," Sirius pointed out. "It won't be easy to find one."

"We'll take him to St. Mungo's," Petunia said. Sirius scowled, as he always did at the mention of the hospital. Petunia ignored him, and went to the fireplace. "I had this place connected to the Floo Network, though I've seldom actually used it. Let's hope it still works."

"Why didn't we just floo from Arabella's, then?" Sirius asked her.

"I didn't want to leave a direct trail from the Manor," Petunia said, "Moody could follow it."

"And I thought I was paranoid," Sirius muttered.

Petunia ignored that, too. They manhandled Crouch over to the fireplace, lit the fire, positioned the elf and the dragon and Petunia threw the floo powder in and cried: "St. Mungo's Hospital!"

They tumbled into the darkened lobby of the Hospital; there were Christmas decorations everywhere, but the reception desk was deserted. Sirius managed to find a spare wheelchair for Crouch and they deposited him in it, after a brief struggle. He was still muttering inanities to himself and looking wildly around.

Petunia thought "Spell Damage" was the category that best fitted Crouch's condition, but she was most familiar with the staff on the Mind Healing ward, so she hit the lift number for that. As she expected, the wards were locked down for the night, and only a single nurse was on duty. Luckily, the nurse recognized Petunia, and agreed to summon the healer designated as on being call for the holiday. Given that she needed to keep Sirius onside in this enterprise, Petunia devoutly hoped it was not Titus.

Her prayer was not answered: Titus appeared, looking rather disgruntled, as well he might. Petunia supposed it made sense: he was the junior member of the team, and would thus be the logical one to be on call on Christmas night. He froze when he saw them, and Sirius bristled. Petunia rushed into speech before the two men could start a public fight, or something equally egregious. She gave a scowling Titus a brief summary of what had occurred.

That distracted him, and with the help of Petunia and Sirius, he got Crouch, still trembling violently, onto an examining table.

"He's definitely been Crucio'd," Titus noted, after casting some diagnostic spells. "Repeatedly. Strong, dark magic, very indiscriminate."

"What about the Imperius curse?" Petunia asked, remembering Sirius's question.

Titus cast the appropriate spells, and after some little time, nodded again. "The Imperius curse, too; and same type of magic in the caster. Crouch's a talented wizard, too; they must have taken him unaware."

"What's causing the mental confusion?"

"Hard to say at this point. It could be the repeated Crucios. It could be the combination of the curses. It could be the attempt by Crouch to break free of the Imperius, given that it's very strong."

"Have you any veritaserum, Titus?" Petunia asked casually.

"Yes, but I wouldn't recommend administering it to Crouch in this state, you won't get a coherent response."

Petunia reached out and seized Winky by the wrist. "I wasn't thinking of Crouch," she said.

Titus was most reluctant to administer the drug to a house elf, and without the said elf's permission, but after some persuasion, he agreed, or at least pretended to agree. Petunia said: "Well, Winky, do we have to do it the hard way or are you going to tell us what's going on here? Why is Mad-Eye Moody after your Master?"

Winky starred at her. "I can't say, Mistress!"

"Yes, you can, Winky," Petunia said. "You owe your Master loyalty, don't you? Look at his condition! You know who did this, I'm pretty sure. Who is he talking about when he talks about the World Cup? Tell me, or the healer will give you veritaserum, and right now."

Winky must have believed her, because she burst into tears and between hiccups told them that the person who had gone astray at the World Cup was Crouch's son, whom he had rescued from Azkaban, and was keeping under house arrest. Crouch the Younger had also stolen Harry's wand and cast the Death Eater spell. "I don't know any more than that! I was supposed to supervise Master Barty at the Cup. He was under an invisibility cloak, you see. But I was afraid of heights, and he got away! I don't know this Moody! I don't know why he would hurt my Master! I swear it!"

This sounded like the truth to Petunia; but it still got them only a little further. "Would Moody be trying to get Crouch to talk?" she asked the men doubtfully. After all, they were more conversant with the mores of the wizarding world than she.

Sirius said: "Moody's a tough old bird, and a bit of a fanatic, but that's illegal and he knows it."

Titus seemed reluctant to agree with Sirius, but he did anyway: "I doubt it very much, Petunia."

That seemed to be that. Either Crouch was hallucinating, or they were still missing a piece of the puzzle. Titus agreed to keep Crouch in St. Mungo's under an assumed name – and in the end they used the name of Petunia's maternal grandfather, Jonathan Cadwalader as his alias.

"I have a feeling Moody will be doing a house-to-house search in the morning," Petunia said. "We'd better be where we're supposed to be when he does, so we'd best be off." She looked pointedly at Sirius.

"Try to keep him safe, not like you did with the rat," Sirius said to Titus, glaring at him and obviously still spoiling for a fight.

"Sirius!" Petunia said sharply. "Behave!" _My God, I sound exactly as though I'm talking to a dog. Which I am, now that I think about it._

Algy didn't help matters one bit by just then arriving from a tour of the ward – Petunia had asked him to keep a watch on the various entrances - and alighting on Titus's shoulder, peering in an interested fashion into his face.

"Who's this, then?" Titus asked her jokingly. He knew about Algy, of course, but he was obviously eager to turn the tone of the conversation.

"This is Algernon Mayhew, Titus," Petunia said formally; Algy insisted upon the surname, and Petunia couldn't think of a single earthly reason why he shouldn't use it if he wanted to. "And this is Healer Titus McWhirter, Algy."

"I've heard Petunia talk about you," said Algy. "Are you a pureblood?"

Shaken, Titus admitted it. "Any Squibs in the last three generations?" Algy then inquired.

Petunia could see where this was going: "Algy! One more word, and it's not only Romania, but I will stun you, and send you there by the slowest air mail I can find, with a note to Rekka to kebab you upon arrival! And no, I am _not_ bluffing!"

Algy gave her an aggrieved look. "Well, if you don't like this one, what about Hector?" he said. "I've heard you talk about him, too. Does he have more money, or a higher-paid job? That would definitely be better."

Petunia was becoming so inured to Algy that she was even ceasing to be embarrassed by his relentless matchmaking. So she cast a _silencio_, which rendered him mute. He flapped angrily about the ward, glaring at Petunia, but noiselessly. Titus seemed to be trying very hard not to laugh, but Sirius was definitely not amused, so Petunia deemed it politic to leave quickly. She left Winky with Crouch, with orders to watch over him, redundancy encapsulated.

Sirius and Petunia arrived back at Mayhew Manor in the very early hours of Boxing Day, having taken the precaution of returning to Wisteria Walk, and using Arabella's floo. The trip was short and silent. Sirius had been overtaken by a fit of the sullens, so Petunia left him to his enjoyment of it. Algy was still struggling with the silencing spell, and blowing increasingly agitated smoke rings.

Mrs. Figg was sitting up, waiting for them. She looked rather startled when she saw Algy and the state of Petunia's robe. Petunia opened her mouth to explain, and then remembered that Mrs. Figg was Dumbledore's spy, and Moody was Dumbledore's adherent. She closed it again.

"Hello, Arabella," she said, with a tolerable assumption of ease. "All well here?"

"We had quite a bit of excitement, earlier on," Mrs. Figg said. "Mad-Eye Moody came to the door looking for someone."

"Really? What did he want here?"

"He was asking for you. And he came in and checked the floo."

Petunia felt her blood freeze. "Indeed?"

"Yes. He wanted to know why there had been a trip to my house," Mrs. Figg said.

"And what did you tell him?" Petunia asked her, dreading the answer.

"I told him that I had asked you to go to my house briefly to feed the cats," Mrs. Figg said blinking at her. "He'll want to know why you never arrived at the Ball, of course, but I'm sure you can think of something plausible to tell him before tomorrow morning."

There was silence for a moment. "Thank you, Arabella," Petunia said finally.

"Not at all, Petunia," Mrs. Figg said, patting her hand. "Not at all."


	35. Chapter 35: LOST IN A MASQUERADE

Thanks for the reviews, all those who did so.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: LOST IN A MASQUERADE

_In which Petunia tries applying logic to wizarding behaviour and comes a cropper as a result._

"Sirius," Petunia said, "I think it's better for you if you leave for Paris right now; I don't think you can risk returning to the Three Broomsticks. Moody might be waiting for you there. I'll get Madame Rosmerta to forward your luggage."

"Are you suggesting that I leave you to face the music all by yourself?" Sirius was indignant.

"Yes," said Petunia. "You can't afford any further trouble either with the Aurors or the authorities. And Moody's quite contemptuous of females; I noticed that when I first met him. I can use that. Let me deal with it alone, Sirius, please. I'm sure he won't hurt me; you I'm not at all certain about."

It took quite some time to convince him, however; he was as bad as the boys for thinking she needed protection. _Well, they knew me when I did. Not so much anymore_, _I think. I hope._

Petunia fixed him a quick breakfast, and gave him the lowdown of what she intended to say to Moody; if the latter checked with Sirius, she wanted their stories to match. It was hugely embarrassing, of course, but at least it instantly restored Sirius to high good humour, so there was that.

Sirius had been gone for about two hours when, as Petunia expected, Moody showed up at the door of the Manor. She had taken the precaution of sending Algy back to Hagrid's, and had warned Mrs. Figg and the elves to lay low. Petunia deliberately had not changed her clothes, and now greeted her visitor still dressed in her crumpled dress robe, and yawning.

Moody's mismatched eyes took in the entire _mise en scène_, including the remains of a breakfast _à deux _on the table; just as Petunia intended he should. She gave him a sleepy smile.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

"Mrs. Dursley? We haven't met, haven't we?" Something in the way he said it told Petunia that he didn't really remember her. _Good_. She gave him the most brainless expression she could manage, and said: "Yes, don't you remember, I consulted you about my son?

Moody shrugged to show his opinion about consultations with the half-witted parents of half-witted parents, and got to his point: "I'm looking for an escaped Death Eater, an older man; have you seen him? I lost track of him just outside of Hogsmeade. Last night, in fact. You attended the Yule Ball last night, didn't you?"

Petunia managed a fatuous simper, and said: "Well, let's say I was supposed to. I was asked to be a chaperon, by Professor McGonagall, no less. But we took a bit of a detour, and as it turned out, we didn't get to Hogswarts at all last night. Arabella – Arabella Figg – she's visiting here for Christmas - wasn't feeling any too well and asked us to floo to her house in Surrey and feed her cats for her - she breeds them, and has quite a few - before we went to the Ball, you understand. Awful smelly beasts; but of course we did it. As a favour, you know. And well – nice quiet house and I hadn't seen my escort – he lives in Paris – for quite a long time –" She let her voice trail off and then giggled. Moody looked bored and impatient. _Excellent. He's buying_.

"Did you go out of the Manor at all?" he asked.

"Not that I remember – but then, we had a bottle of champagne between us, and I'm afraid I got just a little bit tiddly –" She managed a small hiccup. _Oh, God. I hope I'm not overplaying this._

Luckily, Moody's expectations exactly matched her performance. She could see him mentally cross her off, the same way he had done in their first interview. _He lets his prejudices rule him. Good thing to know, and remember._

Moody rose abruptly, and said: "Thank you for your time."

"Always eager to assist the law," Petunia said coquettishly.

Moody looked around the Manor hall, and said: "Now I remember you - Cressida Mayhew's niece, isn't that correct? This is Mayhew Manor."

"Yes," Petunia said, "I inherited it a few years ago." She fluttered her lashes at him and hoped that she wouldn't disgrace herself by laughing_. I had no idea I was such a ham._

"The Mayhews had a lot of trouble with the Ministry," Moody observed.

_What's he getting at? _ "I wouldn't know. We visited Cressida a few times when I was a small child, but I don't remember much about it."

"Old Cassius was up in front of the Wizenmagot several times."

Moody was looking at her as if he expected something from her, but Petunia couldn't imagine what it could be. He gave a crack of laughter at her puzzled stare, and departed. Petunia let out her breath; he hadn't even asked about Sirius, a much better result than she had ever hoped for. The name of her escort might have given even Moody pause.

She was still up when the boys arrived at noon, full of questions about where she had been last night and news about their experiences at the Yule Ball. Petunia wasn't prepared to tell them the truth, and pretended that she had been there, gambling that the Ball had been a vast crush, and that her complete absence might have passed unnoticed. Luckily, she was right.

"It's too bad we missed you," said Dudley. "I was planning to ask you to dance. Harry, too."

"What, in front of all your friends?" Petunia asked, astonished.

"Yes, why ever not?" Harry said. Petunia had noticed that both boys were not particularly concerned over the opinions of their peers, a function of their isolated upbringing, perhaps. Maybe she _had_ been unfair to lecture Dudley over his potential treatment of Luna.

"Well, did you dance with your dates?" Petunia asked them, pointedly.

"Yes, we did," Harry said, exchanging an exasperated look with Dudley. "As per your instructions."

"And did you have fun?" she inquired.

"Well - the World Cup was better; until Dudley started punching Ron, of course."

Dudley flushed and glared at his cousin. "No point looking daggers at me, Dud," Harry said, easily, "she's going to find out about it, sooner or later, and so the explanation had better come from you, and sooner."

"Yes, it had better, and not sooner; right now," Petunia said, sternly. "When do you ever start a fight? It's usually Harry."

It appeared that Ron Weasley had not politely resigned himself to Hermione Granger attending the Ball with Viktor Krum, and had said so: loudly and nastily, and in front of her, not to mention several other people. "He kept saying that Krum was taking her to the Ball because she could peach on Harry's plans and/or help Krum with his clues."

"Not very gallant," Petunia agreed, nodding.

"Well, she set him off, or so he felt," Harry said, shrugging.

"And how was that again?" Petunia asked.

"She looked nice," Harry said. "She'd done her hair, and it wasn't frizzy for once. And she had a nice robe on."

"Obvious provocation," said Petunia. Both boys snorted at her sarcastic tone.

"Anyway," Dudley muttered, "I thought he was out of line, so I belted him; he punched me back, at which point Harry joined in, on whose side I'm not exactly sure."

"Yours," said Harry. "_Éirinn go Brách_, or perhaps I should say '_Mayhews_ _go Brách.''_

"I'm touched," Dudley said sardonically, but Harry took absolutely no notice.

"No, you're not, but leave that. I was also on Hermione's side. Ron's a good mate of mine, but he certainly can be an ass, especially when he tries hard."

"No error there," Dudley said. "That he was trying hard, anyway."

"Did you abandon your dates for this donnybrook?" Petunia asked.

"Other way around," said Harry. "While we sorted it, Parvati was asked to dance ten times and accepted ten times. I didn't mind. Ron paid no damned attention to Padma whatsoever, and so by that time she was long gone, and small blame to her. Luna escorted us to Madame Pomfrey's office for the mopping up, and helped her with it. "

"Are you on the outs with Ron, now? Am I going to get the world's biggest Howler from Molly?"

"I doubt it," said Harry. "Ron cooled off and he and Dudley struck up a truce – of sorts. Hermione is still angry at him, and he ruddy well deserves it, but that's _his_ problem. And if Mrs. Weasley sent a Howler to anyone, it would be Ron, not you; you can bet Ginny would tell her exactly what happened."

The boys then asked after Sirius, with whom they had planned a pick-up Quidditch game in the orchard. When informed that he had already left for Paris, they were thoroughly disappointed. By way of consoling them, Petunia agreed to let them go to Hagrid's hut to pick up Algy, but said: "Mind you, no fooling about in the Forbidden Forest, either one of you, and be back here in an hour!"

Once they had left, Petunia wondered if she had made a mistake. She had told Algy that it was extremely important that he not tell anyone about Crouch, but she had no faith at all in his discretion, given his inability to determine what should – and should not – be broadcast by him to a crowd of people on any given occasion. She was debating on whether she should follow them when Mrs. Figg finally emerged from her bedroom.

"Well," she said to Petunia, "how did it go?"

"Better than I hoped, Arabella. I don't think Moody suspects anything."

Mrs. Figg nodded. "That's good. Now what?"

"I'm going to ask you a sensitive question, and for your opinion: do you think Dumbledore's involved in this?"

Mrs. Figg was silent. "I don't think so, Petunia," she said, finally. "Crucios are not at all his style."

"No, but he might allow his minions to use them. I'm beginning to wonder. He brought Quirrell, Lockhart and Moody to Hogwarts, and they were all dangerous. Was that deliberate? I'll be frank with you, he's the one I can't really read."

"Well, he's a wizard. You do still have trouble with wizarding culture, even you admit that. You expect wizards to behave like Muggles, but with magic. And they don't. Or at least the ones who aren't Muggle-born don't."

"Point taken," said Petunia ruefully. "But I've complained to Dumbledore so very frequently, he simply doesn't take me seriously anymore, if he ever did. I need more evidence."

But how to get it? Petunia didn't know, but she was growing increasingly anxious about the boys attending a school at which the likes of Mad-Eye Moody taught Defense. And yet everyone she had asked about him, including Sirius - a person who had suffered at the hands of the Aurors - conceded that he was an eccentric but definitely a dedicated enemy of Voldemort. Had he become the thing he fought?

She was still considering the problem when the boys and Algy burst into the drawing room. Algy seemed to have forgotten his tantrums of the night before, and was in a state of high excitement. In a quiet moment some time later, though, he confided to Petunia that he had kept his promise to her and had not told the boys anything about last night.

"I wanted to thank you, Algy," Petunia said. "You were a great help to me last night, and you kept your head very well." _I won't mention the matchmaking, because by now I hardly even notice it._

The little dragon preened, and gave her a pleased look. _Maybe I should try praise with him more often; it seems to work better than shouting._

Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger, Ginny Weasley, and Luna Lovegood all showed up for tea, and a game of Exploding Snap was soon started. Petunia begged off, pleading exhaustion, and went up to her bedroom. She was tired, but not sleepy, and sat for several minutes on the edge of her four-poster, considering. Then she knelt down, and withdrew a long, narrow lockbox from under the bed. Opening it, she hesitated, and then took an item out of it. It was James Potter's invisibility cloak.

Petunia considered it. It was really a beautiful cloak, she thought, the best one she had ever seen. And perhaps she could use it to find the answers she needed. She swung it up and wrapped it around herself, and looking in her mirror could see nothing; it was uncanny_. I need to search Moody's office, and with this I could do it. I'd better refine my unlocking spells, too._

So Petunia spent the rest of the holidays locating Moody's digs within the Castle, and determining his teaching schedule in the New Year. _I can't believe that I'm going to do something this damned lunatic, but then, perhaps I'm not a Gryffindor for nothing._

Speaking of lunatics, Petunia paid a discreet visit to St. Mungo's just before New Year's Day, to check up on her 'grandfather.' Marcella and Hector were not yet back from their Christmas holidays, but Titus had managed to stabilize Crouch considerably, both physically and mentally. "I think that he could recover, if given a period of absolute rest and quiet," he told her. "We've made some decent progress with it so far."

Certainly Crouch looked much better physically, and also seemed much quieter. He peered up at Petunia as she sat beside his bed: "I know you, don't I?" he asked her tentatively, with a nervous half-smile.

Petunia took his hand and smiled back at him: "Yes; we've met. I'm Petunia Dursley. I'm glad to hear that you're feeling better."

"Yes," he said softly "much better."

"Do you remember what happened on Christmas night?"

Crouch's face crumbled. "Please, please don't ask me!" he cried. He covered his face with his hands.

Titus shook his head at her. They left Crouch cowering in his bed, and consulted in Titus's office. "He simply won't talk about that," Titus said. "Not yet. I've sedated him a good bit, but I don't dare give him anything more."

"What happens when Marcella and Hector return?" Petunia asked.

"I'll have to tell them the truth, of course," Titus said. Petunia sighed. That meant time was tighter than she had anticipated. She couldn't see Marcella going along with the kidnapping of Mr. Crouch, even if it was for his own good. She knew there was no point arguing, nor did she intend to. Titus had risked a lot in the Sirius kerfuffle, and she felt that she had no right to demand more from him.

Petunia spent the rest of that afternoon going through back numbers of _The Prophet _at the Diagon Alley library. On detailed examination, her first impression of the wizarding newspaper had proved absolutely accurate: it was a rag. But it was an informative one, and she was able to use it to confirm details about Mr. Crouch's past. His son would now be in his late thirties, and photographs showed a sharp-faced young man with a shock of fair hair. There was no one at Hogwarts – at least no one that she knew of - that fit this description. But Moody obviously felt Mr. Crouch knew where his son and heir was, thus the Crucios. Did Moody know more than that? Petunia intended to find out.

Minerva McGonagall had told her that a planning session for the Second Task was scheduled to be held in Dumbledore's office that Saturday, with all the professors attending, so Petunia decided to seize the opportunity to search Moody's office. Her resolve failed her more than once during the days prior, but Saturday found her lurking outside his door, the invisibility cloak folded over her arm. And, for a wonder, she had brought Algy.

His presence had resulted from a process of elimination. Petunia felt that she needed to tell _someone_ of her plans, as a back-up, but the other candidates – Pompey, Mrs. Figg and Aberforth – would, she felt, veto them, as would any of the professors. Titus would, too, she was sure. That left Algy.

Algy was chatty and indiscreet, but the ability to breathe fire, and even more importantly, not criticize her plans, weighed heavily in his favour, as far as Petunia was concerned. Sirius was the only other adult she knew that would try what she intended to do without a qualm, so she supposed it was good thing – for him – that he was in Paris. However, when she asked him for advanced unlocking spells by floo, he readily supplied a restricted one, _reserare_, from his own long-ago Auror training days, and after some persuasion, another one, _datglo_, which, he said, was much favoured by the Death Eaters. He warned her that the latter example was considered Dark Magic, and to be careful with its use. Petunia accepted the information gratefully.

She wrapped the cloak around her and pulled the hood over her head, and set Algy on guard. "Look like a gargoyle; I know you can. Perch up there in that niche in the wall and try not to attract any attention. Warn me if you hear anyone coming by upsetting a suit of armour, or something else that will make a lot of noise."

The cloak was designed for an adult male, and was thus a little long. Petunia tripped over it in an undignified way a couple of times. _I rather doubt that I would have a big career as a spy_. She hoped using it was a good idea; for some reason, she was bothered about something the boys had said in passing about Moody and the cloak. She wished she could remember what it was.

_Alohomora _didn't work on Moody's office door_, _which didn't surprise Petunia at all. She tried the restricted spell provided by Sirius, and the door gave a distinct click, and opened a crack. She looked both ways down the corridor, and up at Algy, who was perched in an upper alcove, and silently watching, and then pushed it open.

Moody's office was large and spacious; Petunia remembered it from last year, when it had been occupied by Lupin. There was a bedsitter and en suite attached, which was the norm with the professors. Moody's desk was a large one, heavily decorated and elaborately carved, and locked. It was set against a trio of tall Gothic windows.

The restricted spell worked again; the locked desk drawers gave a click, and opened. There was a nest of papers, wrapped lozenges, rubber bands, pens, nibs and a bottle of ink inside, and in the larger desk drawer, a stack of student essays, as yet unmarked. But there was nothing of interest that Petunia could see.

There were bookcases, mostly empty, and a large wardrobe, also mostly empty. Petunia went over to the door leading to the bedroom, and used the restricted spell; and yet again it worked, and the door clicked open. Petunia pushed on it gingerly, and entered the room. It was cold and bleak, the bed unmade, and the only other major piece of furniture in it a large trunk, sitting in the middle of the room. Clothes were piled on the chairs. _Why not put them in the trunk? That seems odd._

Petunia had been shown this type of trunk before, by Professor McGonagall and by Madame Pomfrey, both of whom owned one. She had asked them for assistance because Cressida Mayhew had also owned one, and Petunia had not been able to decipher how it should be used without help. There were usually a number of different keys, each of which would reveal different contents. No keys were visible anywhere in the rooms, and Petunia suspected Moody had them on his person. She tried the restricted spell, and for the first time that day it did not work.

Petunia hesitated, and then used the Death Eater spell that Sirius had warned her about. The trunk creaked open. It seemed to be filled with detritus of various types: spellbooks, another set of unmarked essays, and the like. She opened it again, and the results, if not exactly the same, were similar. Up until the seventh time she opened it; then she gave a gasp. A crater, nearly ten feet deep, was revealed, and on the floor of it lay what looked to be a body. Petunia raised her wand above her head to illuminate it. A man, unconscious, not dead; he was still breathing. Crouch's son? She jumped down to take a better look. She peered at his face, and saw that he was older man – not the younger Crouch, then. She gasped again as she looked closer. A replica of Mad-Eye Moody lay there, devoid of the wooden leg, and it appeared, the magical eye. His hair was raggedly cropped, and he looked bruised and battered.

"Enervate," Petunia muttered, and the good eye opened.

"Who are you?" the man said in Moody's raspy voice.

"What's _your_ name?" Petunia whispered.

His hand grasped her wrist: "Alastor Moody," he said.

Petunia straightened suddenly as the implications of this discovery sank in. And thus she heard clearly the crash of something falling outside the office – a suit of armour? Algy was warning her. Someone was coming.

She knew a moment of sheer terror. The trunk had a warning spell on it; she should have guessed that it would. _You stupid, stupid fool!_ The edge of the pit suddenly looked like it was miles above her. She pulled the cloak around her, but Moody said from the floor: "That won't work; my eye sees through invisibility cloaks. And he took it."

Petunia leapt for the edge of the pit, and missed. She fell heavily, and sprawled on the floor. More noise from above. Petunia panicked. She jumped again, and though it seemed hopelessly high, this time she managed to grasp the edge and pull herself up. The trunk lid slammed shut as she slid through it. The room seemed to be in the wrong proportion; surely it wasn't this big? She slithered quickly through the door, and it, too, clicked shut after her.

But she was not quite quick enough. Mad-Eye Moody - the other one - entered the room with a scowl on his face and a wand in his hand. He seemed preposterously tall.

"You here?" Moody said to her, almost absently. He didn't seem at all concerned. "You must have set off the alarm, I suppose." He looked about and listened. There was no other sound in the office. He went to the trunk and hesitated.

"Go find Filch," he said to Petunia. _Filch? What does he mean? _She found herself on the floor. _What I am doing there? Why does he look like a giant?  
_

He then kicked her in the side as she lay there, almost lazily. Some instinct told Petunia not to tense her body as the blow landed, and she relaxed. Even so, the impact caused her to roll over several times.

Moody opened the door. "Out you get," he said. Petunia could scarcely believe that he would just let her go, and wondered if he was inviting her to leave so that he could get a clear shot at an _Aveda Kedavra_. Yet that same instinct urged her to flee; and she did not need a second invitation. She skittered across the floor and ran for the door.


	36. Chapter 36: THE CAT CAME BACK

This story has now broken the 400 review ceiling, and it only took 35 chapters! For just 'some tale about Petunia' (as one of the said reviews put it) not at all bad. My sincere thanks to all those who do review, because there is a difference between low review totals and _humiliatingly_ low review totals, if you get my meaning. :p

Susan M. M.: Ah, yes, but just remember that though Dudley is just as jealous as Ron is of Viktor Krum, he's not a redhead, and he's learned – remember Chapter 1 – not to show his feelings. Not overtly, anyway; though I suspect punching Ron relieved them a bit. The reverse is also true. It's also true that since both boys appreciate Hermione, no matter how badly they may express it, that's a vote for them.

You also said that you thought the pretender thought little of Petunia because she was Muggle-born; but, if you check back carefully, he doesn't know that. She decided not to tell him, and he also doesn't know she's Harry's aunt. I point this out because it now becomes important.

I tried not to make the transformation too obvious, but I see that I fooled absolutely no one, and you all guessed the form without any trouble, too. *Sigh.* I shouldn't have mentioned Filch! Giveaway!

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: THE CAT CAME BACK

_In which Petunia re-enters, stage right, armed only with a small, chatty dragon, and confronts a Death Eater; thereby proving that she is a Gryffindor in truth as well as name._

Petunia fled through the door so quickly that she lost traction on the stone floor, skidded into the hallway and nearly collided with a collapsed suit of armour, lying there in pieces. The door slammed shut behind her. From a great distance above, she saw the head of a small dragon staring intently down at her from a niche in the wall. She tried to speak, but only a frustrated feline yowl came out.

_What on earth was that? Is Mrs. Norris about? Is that why he mentioned Filch?_ Then she saw her reflection in the polished surface of the armour, and gave a strangled yelp of surprise. She saw there a very familiar-looking cat, if not Filch's familiar.

Though she found Mrs. Figg's feline menagerie rather overpowering, not to mention smelly, and she disliked the prying, spying Mrs. Norris, Petunia had always been rather fond of cats in general, a taste that all of her original family had shared. Throughout her childhood, the Evanses had always had a pet cat or two. Or sometimes even three or four. Her mother favored elegant Siamese; Lily had loved white golden-eyed kittens, and her father had an enormous Norwegian Forest cat that sat on his shoulder each morning while he read the paper. This cat had appeared at the front door of their home one day and had simply adopted him. It always amused Petunia and Lily that both their father and his cat familiar had bright green eyes and untidy curling reddish hair. _Familiar_, Petunia thought suddenly; why had she used that word? Was _that_ the reason they always had cats and not dogs? She remembered Dumbledore's remarks about Squib lines; she had never before suspected that her father was of wizarding descent, but now that she thought about it, there had been signs—and not just the familiar. Her family had laughed about the cat's habit of peering down at the newspaper, almost as if it was reading it-which very possibly it was, now that Petunia thought about it.

Petunia's cat of choice in childhood had been a rangy grey and black kitten with needle-pointed ears, yellow- green eyes, and pancake-sized paws. Her father had told her that it was a polydactyl cat—one born with the twice the usual number of toes on his feet. Petunia remembered reading that such cats had been popularly supposed to be witches' familiars throughout history, and hunted down and destroyed as such in Puritan days.

She had been teased and criticized in the neighbourhood for keeping a 'deformed' cat, much to her dismay; she had been rather more moved by public opinion in those days than she was now. But the kitten, who she solemnly named Branwell – she was deep in her Brontë stage at the time - was lively, inquisitive and a great deal of fun. And it was a female version of her beloved Bran that she saw in the reflective armour, in the hallway of Hogwarts Castle, a good many years since her very first familiar had died in the fire that had also claimed her parents.

_My God, I did it! I managed an animagus transformation! I can't believe it_!

Algy landed next to her on the floor and looked intently at her. "Petunia?" he said doubtfully, sniffing her. Petunia sat up on her haunches, and yowled again.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Algy asked, even having the sense to whisper.

Petunia froze. She had been so distracted by her transformation, which had undoubtedly saved her life, that she had forgotten Moody's predicament_. I have to change back, right now_!

On her first try, she was unsuccessful, and she felt a spasm of terror. _I'm going to be stuck in this form forever, I know it, I know it!_

Curiously, though, as soon as she panicked, the impetus to change back flooded her, and she suddenly found herself sprawled on the floor of the hallway, no longer a cat. Every bone in her body ached, and there was a pain in her side where the faux Moody had kicked her. She felt terrifically relieved, but only for a second. She immediately noticed that two things that she had possessed when she had entered Moody's office were now missing: the invisibility cloak and her wand. And even after only a moment's consideration, she was convinced that there was only one place that she could have left them: the crater under the trunk. If the faux Moody found them there, she was certain, he would know his cover was blown, and he would probably kill the real Moody immediately, and then escape.

There was no time to be lost. _I told the boys to run for a teacher in a situation like this, didn't I, and so what am I going to do now? I'm going to go right back in there, without my wand, without the cloak, and with my dragon. The boys were right, I'm afraid, there's just no time for anything else. And if I ever get the chance, I'll tell them so, rotten role model that I am._

Petunia staggered to her feet, braced herself against the wall, and held out her arm to Algy, who obligingly hopped onto it. There was no time to formulate a plan, so she whirled around and started pounding on the door to Moody's office.

At first there was no answer. Petunia pounded harder on the door, an surge of panic propelling her. Then, finally: "Who's there?" Moody's voice said.

"Hello?" Petunia cried loudly, ignoring the question. "Hello?"

Moody's voice repeated the question, but again Petunia ignored it, and kept pounding.

The door opened a crack, and the magical blue eye regarded her. Petunia didn't bother with politeness. "Let me in!" she demanded. "I have news for you. About that man you were chasing on Christmas Night."

_That'll fetch him, or I'm not a Muggle-born_. Indeed, she was right, the door now opened half way, and he gave her an intent look. "Do you know where he is, then?" he asked. _Has he already killed the real Moody, I wonder? How much time has elapsed between my eviction in animagus form and this conversation? Oh, damn, I'm not sure -!_

Petunia collected herself enough to remember Mrs. Figg's warning about highly skilled wizards: don't look them in the eye. So she dropped her gaze demurely and said: "Well, not exactly, but I've discovered something that may help you find him."

The door now opened all the way, and the faux Moody motioned her inside. Petunia wondered if she'd ever walk out again, but she didn't hesitate. He closed the door behind her, and when he turned around, his attention suddenly became fixed upon Algy, perched on her shoulder, and looking about himself critically.

"What's that?" he said.

Algy bristled. "Good day to you, too," he said sharply, "and it's _who_ and not _what_." Petunia restrained a whoop of hysterical laughter with some difficulty.

"This is Algernon," she said, even managing to sound calm, omitting the surname this time. This man wouldn't cater to the hurt feelings of miniature dragons, she felt sure. Algy glared at the faux Moody, who stared back at him, astonished.

"You mentioned that my great-great-grandfather was hauled up in front of the Wizengamot," Petunia said. "You are now being introduced to one of the reasons why."

The faux Moody's face relaxed, and he even looked amused. "He was a pureblood, your grandfather, wasn't he?"

"Yes, of course," Petunia said, in an offended tone. _He'd expect an answer like that if I were the person he thinks that I am._

"No offence meant," he said.

Petunia shrugged. "None taken."

"Did your family – take sides?" Moody asked carefully, "In the late War, I mean."

"Well – my father did think the Dark Lord had some sound ideas –" Petunia said, feeling her way.

"Was he imprisoned for his opinions?" _My father? He was Welsh nationalist, but that was the extent of it. And he would have never hurt anyone, unlike you, you despicable wanker. _"Well, he was never actively _recruited_, you understand. But his sympathies were engaged, or so I understand."

"And you?" Moody said, looking searchingly at her.

"Well, you know, I've never been really been involved in politics - though, I must admit, my husband was quite interested."

"To what extent?" he asked. "Active involvement?"

Petunia nodded, her expression mournful.

"And where is he now?"

Petunia saw no reason to lie. "He was - institutionalized," she said primly, her tone warning him not to pursue the subject too closely. _And if he thinks I mean Azkaban, so much the better._

"I see," said Moody. _He __does__ think I mean Azkaban! Hallelujah!_

"How long has he been there?" the faux Moody asked.

_How long ago was the War? I hope I can remember my wizarding history properly. _"It must be twelve years now, or so, I suppose. There was a trial – that took some time." _It wasn't the type of trial you think, but thank God I'm not really lying, if you're one of those wizards who can tell things like that._

"Are you divorced, then?" the faux Moody asked. Petunia detected disapproval in his voice, and knew she would have to be careful.

"Yes, we are, a friend of mine paid for it." Also true. "My husband's family was angry about it, but what could I do? We have a child, and I was afraid of being arrested myself if I didn't disassociate myself from him. What would have become of our son if that had happened? I hadn't inherited the Manor then, you see, and I was desperately short of money. I couldn't afford trouble." True yet again.

"Did they question you?" the faux Moody asked her.

"A little – but I didn't tell them _any_thing!" Petunia said. "And that was after my husband was already in their custody. When they arrested him, my husband just went mad and started assaulting Aurors, and after that there was really no hope of acquittal."

"I see."

"No, you don't! He got life imprisonment, was I expected to wait?"

"Was anyone?" the faux Moody said, rather bitterly.

"I still love him," Petunia said. _May God strike me dead for that giant, giant lie._ "But there's nothing I can do for him. Not where he is."

"Suppose," the man said, "that I could get him released? Would you be interested?"

"How would you do that?" Petunia asked, feeling flustered, trying to conceal her dismay at the very idea.

"Never mind that. But if you were willing, perhaps we could arrange it."

Petunia managed a simper, while Moody considered her thoughtfully. He seemed to make up his mind: "I could use some assistance in return, if you _were_ interested?"

"Oh, of course," Petunia said, giving him a rather foolish smile. "I always like to oblige when I can." _There's an awful double entendre if there ever was one_.

"You were going to tell me about the man I questioned you about?" the faux Moody said. Petunia told him about stumbling over a place on the path to Hogwarts where there had been several broken branches, marking what appeared to be a struggle – "I thought I should let you know." _He'll think I'm really stupid when he hears that._

He did, though he pretended that the information was valuable enough for him to check it out. _It might have been at one time; too late now._ Then he returned to more important things.

"I need a place to keep certain things that are getting rather too dangerous to store here," he said. "The Manor – does it have a cellar?"

"Oh, yes, of course it does," Petunia said. "An ordinary cellar, and wine cellar, as well. Would that do?"

"It might," faux Moody said, "if they were secure."

"They're very secure," Petunia said, "and they have good, solid locks."

"With windows?"

"The wine cellar is windowless."

"There _is_ a direct floo to the school from the Manor, is there not?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Your absolute discretion would be required," the faux Moody said. "I must warn you now; if you don't keep silent, you will regret it. I will kill you, your husband, and your son. In that order." He spoke quite casually. _I guess killing is like anything else; it gets easier if you practice. This man has done his practicing._

"If you get my husband released," Petunia said, trying to look as if she meant it, "I'll do anything." _To prevent it._

"Very well," the faux Moody said, with a smug smile, which Petunia pretended not to notice. He motioned her into his bedroom, and Petunia reacted to this as she felt a pure blooded idiot would – flirtatiously. The faux Moody just barely concealed his impatience. "I need to show you something, and no, it's not _that." This man is interested in power and revenge, not sex. I'll give that a Hallelujah, too._

He pointed out the trunk to her and then opened it, using a key attached to his belt; murmured '_Lumos_' and motioned her over. Petunia edged forward, though as far away from the man as she could; she feared the faux Moody meant to toss her into the crater with the real one, and slam the trunk lid shut; she peered into the barely illuminated gloom at the bottom of the crater.

The real Moody lay at the bottom of the pit, face up, eyes closed. Petunia looked frantically around the crater for her wand and the invisibility cloak; but she could see neither of them. She gasped, for the sake of the audience. The faux Moody was obviously pleased with her reaction.

"Who is that?" she asked the man beside her.

"That's the man I need to hide with you at the Manor," he answered.

"He looks like – he looks like you," Petunia faltered.

"No," said the faux Moody, "I look like _him_." He produced a silver flask from his pocket, opened it, and poured a little of the liquid from inside it into his palm. "Do you know what this is?"

Petunia shook her head, though she suspected the correct answer. _The person he thinks I am wouldn't know, and couldn't guess._

The faux Moody laughed. The sound was odd; perhaps because he was no longer imitating the real Moody's voice, Petunia decided. His voice now sounded lighter and younger.

"It's Polyjuice Potion," he said.

Petunia stared at it blankly. "I see," she said. _That's how he's done it – really clever. You have to drink it every hour on the hour to maintain the impersonation._

The faux Moody capped the flask and stowed it away inside his robe. "Come with me," he said to Petunia, "I need your help."

Petunia nearly baulked at climbing back into the crater, especially as he made her leave Algy perched on the edge of the trunk. Biting her lip, she managed it, dropping down to the floor of the pit, and kneeling beside the unconscious man. Close up, she could see the livid bruises on the face of the real Moody and wondered whether he could live much longer; he looked very thin, and rather wasted.

"He doesn't look well," she said, to the faux Moody, who had clambered down himself, and stood above her.

"He's well enough," he said curtly. "I need him for the potion."

_That's why his hair's been hacked off. I wondered._

"Here," the faux Moody said to her, "take this." He handed Petunia his wand, obviously intending that she would hold it, the _Lumos_ spell still animating the tip of it, high in the air so that he could see to lift his comatose prisoner.

It was the sort of mistake only a supremely self-confident wizard could make. As soon as Petunia grasped the wand, the real Moody opened his eyes and sat up. Petunia saw that he had been lying on her wand and the invisibility cloak; now he seized her wand from the floor and used it to cast a spell; exactly what, Petunia wasn't sure. The faux Moody dodged it, moving away from Petunia and his own wand as he did so. Though he now was essentially unarmed, he was obviously able to cast spells without a wand, and he now sent one toward the real Moody, who rolled away from it.

In the small space, the spells ricocheted terrifyingly, whizzing past her ear. Petunia decided that in this case, smaller was better, and transformed. She dragged Moody's wand out of range with her mouth, and withdrew to a corner, watching fearfully while the men fought.

Petunia had never seen a wizarding duel before, and she found it a terrifying experience. It was obvious that both men were gifted at it, and that they hated each other enough to kill. It was like someone had let off a series of ear-splitting fireworks in the pit_. And if the faux Moody wins, I'm doomed; I won't get another chance to escape._

Even with the advantage of a wand, the real Moody – Petunia could tell which was which by the absence of the magical eye and the wooden leg – seemed to be rapidly tiring, which was hardly surprising. Petunia decided to even the playing field. The two men were so intent on each other that they seemed to have forgotten about her, especially easy to do after she had transformed. The faux Moody now had his back to her, and she leapt upon it. She climbed up to his shoulders – he was moving rapidly and didn't seem to even notice – and unsheathed her claws. _They look nice and sharp, don't they? Good. _She now aimed for his head, clawing viciously at his good eye. He screamed, and tried to dislodge her. She clung ever more tightly, and used one of her claws to dislodge the magic eye, which now fell to the floor: the faux Moody was effectively blinded. _In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king._ The real Moody bellowed "_Stupify_!" and hit his opponent full in the chest with the spell. He fell like a tree, Petunia rolling away from his head as he hit the ground with a thud. She transformed back to human form.

"Nice work," the surviving Moody said to her quietly, and fainted, joining his facsimile on the floor of the pit_. _


	37. Chapter 37: TRIPLE CROSS

Many, many thanks for the reviews, and please don't set anything on fire, 013bela, you might hurt yourself!

I think we break the 100,000 words barrier with this chapter. This story started as a one-shot, believe it or not, and thirty-seven chapters later, not only is there no end in sight, but there is also very little notion on how to get to the end even if I could see it. Which is scary.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: TRIPLE CROSS

_In which Mad-Eye Moody is impersonated yet again. Well, perhaps it's the impersonator of Mad-Eyed Moody who's impersonated. In any case, a non-pretender is pretending to be a pretender, which should make it clearer, but doesn't._

Petunia seized her wand and added a leg-locker spell to Moody's stupefy. _No harm in a few precautions; a little late, but no harm_. She wrapped the unconscious Moody in the invisibility cloak and with the help of Algy, levered him out of the pit. He was so light it was just possible. The comatose faux Moody she left there, first collecting his wand and the magical eye from the floor and his keys from his belt. She locked the truck securely and attached the keys to her own key ring.

When she emerged from the pit, she found the real Moody sprawled on the floor of his bedroom, still partially wrapped in the cloak. The bed was the most obvious place to deposit him, but the thought of placing him on sheets already used by his Death Eater captor was abhorrent to Petunia, so she ran back to the wardrobe in the other room, in which she had seen some fresh linen during her earlier search. She stripped and remade the bed, cast a freshening spell on Moody and dragged him onto it and tucked him in, just as if he were one of the boys. He seemed to be shivering with cold, so she covered him with the blankets.

Petunia consulted the clock above the mantle and discovered that the teachers' conference in Dumbledore's office was now over by nearly a half an hour. So she began by summoning Madame Pomfrey through the floo. Poppy was rather aggrieved: "If it's one of the boys, Petunia, I don't see why you can't bring him to the infirm-" She broke off as she straightened up and saw Moody in bed, and Petunia standing beside him looking distinctly disheveled. And of course, the miniature dragon hopping about wasn't exactly usual. "What on earth?"

"I'll explain in a minute, Poppy," Petunia said. "See to him, will you? Here's his magic eye. Make sure you soak it in alcohol before he puts it back in. You don't know where it's been – let me amend that - I _do _know where it's been, and you'd better soak it in alcohol."

She then summoned Dumbledore. He was just as reluctant as Poppy to come through the floo, but did so after Petunia insisted and Poppy added her voice to the plea. Petunia supposed floo travel wasn't particularly easy if you were one hundred and fifty years old, and the slow way Dumbledore straightened up after he'd come through it rather confirmed that. He surveyed the scene silently, and then looked at Petunia with his brows raised.

"Well, Mrs. Dursley?" he said. "What have you done to Alastor?"

"I didn't do anything – to him," Petunia said grimly. "His Death Eater doppelganger, however, is another story. He's in that trunk. Seventh key." She handed him the key ring. "Be careful. I don't know if he's awake or not, and he's damned dangerous at the best of times."

Dumbledore unlocked the trunk cautiously, his own wand at the ready. He raised the trunk lid and the three of them – Poppy had come over to see its contents, too – looked down on the faux Moody. He was lying there looking pale and battered; there was blood on his face where Petunia in her animagus form had clawed him, and he appeared to be unconscious.

"He was using Polyjuice," Petunia said, "and he used the flask Moody usually carried to keep it in."

"I see," Dumbledore said. "Very clever, indeed. Do you know who he is?" he asked her.

"No; all I know is that he's a Death Eater. Which one, I couldn't say. I'm hoping it's Pettigrew, from the great pleasure I'd get from - well, never mind." _No need to tell him outright that I'm an animagus. But if I caught Pettigrew in his animagus form while I was in mine, he'd be one highly surprised dead rat._

There was thump behind them and they turned to see Alastor Moody, who had found his stick, and was approaching them slowly. He joined their group at the edge of the trunk and looked down upon his jailor, his face livid with anger.

As they watched, the faux Moody began to change. _It looks like the Polyjuice is wearing off. _ Once Petunia realized that the man was not Moody, she had assumed it was Pettigrew, but now, as he regressed back to his original appearance, it appeared that she was wrong. This man was taller and thinner, and had a shock of wheat-coloured fair hair. His features smoothed out and then sharpened. Petunia gasped.

Dumbledore looked at her. "Do you know who he is?"

"Barty Crouch, Junior," Moody said, in his raspy voice, before Petunia could respond. "I remember him." He spat on the Death Eater lying below, and even Petunia thought he was justified. _The memories obviously aren't good ones. Not to mention the recent experiences._

"How do _you_ know him, Mrs. Dursley?" Dumbledore said, looking at her closely. _I shouldn't have acted surprised. I'll have to watch that. It doesn't pay to give away information for nothing, a notion that suggests that I've got a major in Gryffindor and a minor in Slytherin. _ "I've been reading back numbers of the _Prophet_ in the library," she said. "And I read the story about his trial. Complete with pictures." Dumbledore had the discretion not to ask her – at least not at this point - why she had been doing such research, for which she was grateful.

"You could introduce me to this lady, Dumbledore," Moody said. "Don't think I know her, though I certainly do owe her."

"You're right, of course; forgive me," Dumbledore said. "This is Petunia Dursley, Alastor. Lily Potter's sister. You remember Lily, of course."

"Of course," Moody nodded. "You don't look much like her," he said to Petunia.

"Yes, I know," Petunia said wearily, wondering why people still persisted with these comparisons. _I'm getting damned tired of it._

"Thank you for saving my life," Moody said simply, and kissed her hand. Petunia was fairly certain that this man rarely – never? – made gestures like that. She turned red and wished she were elsewhere. "Not at all," she muttered. _I certainly didn't start out to do so, but it appears I did anyway_.

"Perhaps you could explain to us what happened, if you please," Dumbledore said. And while Poppy fetched some alcohol to soak his magical eye in and potions for Moody himself, Petunia did so. She mentioned the faux Moody's pursuit of Crouch the Elder without mentioning who the escapee was and where was he was now. _No need to spread that about just yet.  
_

"Pettigrew and Crouch ambushed me at home," Moody said. "I must be older than I thought." He shivered, and Dumbledore looked at him with concern.

"Perhaps we should get you to the infirmary, Alastor," he said.

"No," said Petunia. Both the men looked at her with surprise.

"It's better that he stays here," she said. "You can move young Mr. Crouch out to Azkaban, of course, but I would do it on the quiet, and under an assumed name, given that he supposedly died there over ten years ago."

"I would guess that you have a reason?" Dumbledore asked her.

"I do indeed," Petunia said. "We need to interview Crouch first, to see what he knows. That means veritaserum."

Dumbledore said that he would have to ask Snape for it, and Petunia agreed, but objected to him knowing why. Moody supported her; he was not a particular admirer of the Potions professor, given his Death Eater past. She suspected that Dumbledore was not used to being overruled, but he accepted it with at least an outward show of good grace.

The subsequent interview, which took place in the pit, gave Petunia the creeps. Moody refused to go back down into his prison for the occasion, for which she could not blame him. He watched from above, clutching his wand and scowling at Crouch, who talked freely. Yes, he said, he had ambushed Moody, with the help of Pettigrew. Voldemort had ordered them to do so; they needed an agent inside Hogwarts, and they knew that Dumbledore had engaged Moody as his new Defense Professor. Where was Voldemort? He was at his ancestral home, a house in a village called Little Hangleton, or at least he was there part of the time. Pettigrew was there, too; his master needed a keeper. Voldemort was still in a vestigial state, though he had great plans to regain a body. These plans had included Harry Potter.

Petunia gasped. "Why?" she blurted, unable to keep silent.

Dumbledore gave her a reproving look, and she subsided, but Crouch answered the question as though Dumbledore himself had asked it.

"He thinks the blood of the wizard who bested him in the past will give him exceptional strength when he regenerates," he said. _I think all wizards are mad, but there are obviously degrees, and the soi-disant Lord Voldemort qualifies as a full-bore flaming nutbar._

Voldemort had ordered them to enter the boy in the Triwizard Tournament, and his underage status and the Goblet's magical powers had not deterred him, or them. Voldemort had ambitious plans and he wanted, too, to receive maximum attention when he achieved them. So Crouch, disguised as Moody, had entered Harry's name under the name of the Salem Institute, and as the only entrant for that school, he was selected. Voldemort had given him careful instructions on how to fool the Goblet, and had given him the relevant spell.

In his role as the Hogwarts Defense Professor, Crouch had also done what he could to further the boy's course in the tournament so far; it was Voldemort's intention that he should win it. The reason? The Cup was a portkey, and when the boy touched it in his moment of triumph, it would transport him to Little Hangleton just in time to contribute his blood to the resurrection of Lord Voldemort. Then they would kill him, by way of sealing their triumph, and demonstrating to the wizarding world that not only had Voldemort returned, but nothing and no one would be able to stop him.

Petunia was horrified by danger that Harry had been in, but thought that the whole plan sounded over-elaborate in the extreme, with endless potential to go wrong. And she couldn't understand why the transport of Harry had to take place at the end of the Tournament. Bloody inefficient, that was. _I'm beginning to understand a few things about Voldemort; he likes show, and he's not logical. And he just loves to demonstrate how very clever he is. He *is* clever; he's just not smart. Always something to consider about one's enemy. _

"If Voldemort thinks Crouch is still Moody," Petunia pointed out, "He won't flee. He'll continue with the plan. And that may win us some time, and more important, some information on just where Little Hangleton is, and what part of it he's living in. In any case, who better to play Professor Moody in this plan but he himself?"

"The old triple cross," Moody said appreciatively.

"Just so," Petunia said. "My grandfather was in intelligence work during World War II. He told me that when they turned a double agent, that's what they called it – the triple cross. This is not quite the same, but close enough. I think it's worth a try, but we have to keep things as quiet as possible. Poppy will have to know, of course, but I think it's better if she treat Professor Moody right here; the infirmary's too public. School starts Tuesday. Do you think you'd be well enough by then to teach?"

"Yes," Moody said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Good," Petunia said. "I'm guessing – hoping - that they will contact you with further information. Let us know when he does, and for God's sake don't go anywhere on your own."

Dumbledore gave her a troubled glance, but he did not argue the point just then. At first, Petunia assumed that he was pouting, especially as Moody had obviously sided with her, but then he said: "We need to have a meeting on how to proceed with this, but there is much to be considered first, Mrs. Dursley, so not quite yet." Petunia was so surprised to carry her point with him that she agreed.

The arrangements made – the only bad part of it was that Harry would have to continue in that damned Tournament, or so Petunia thought, she and Algy left. Algy, reluctantly; both the men appeared fascinated by him, and kept asking him questions, despite Moody's very evident need to rest, and Dumbledore's air of distraction.

When she and Algy finally arrived home at the Manor, Petunia was surprised to encounter Mr. Crouch, looking rather frail and slightly disoriented, in her drawing room, accompanied by Marcella and Winky, with identical looks of aggression on their faces. They had just come through the floo, she noted. And there was luggage, too – apparently they meant to stay, though she wasn't sure which of them and where.

It turned out Mr. Crouch and Winky intended to stay with _her_. Or perhaps that should be amended to: Marcella intended that Mr. Crouch and Winky should stay with her. Marcella instructed Winky to get Mr. Crouch settled in the guest suite. _Luckily the renovations of it have just been completed. Wait a minute! Why is Marcella giving orders in my home?_

Petunia meant to ask her this, but she didn't really get the chance. They watched Winky support Mr. Crouch out of the room, but when Petunia turned to Marcella, the older woman said curtly: "He's staying with you from now on; I won't have Titus compromise his career one more minute. That trouble with Sirius Black was trouble enough. You shouldn't have asked it of him, and that's the truth."

"But -"

"Crouch is too well – not to mention too well known - to stay in St. Mungo's any longer," Marcella continued, in full career. "But he's not well enough to go home; he can't be left alone with just a house elf. Titus should have contacted the Ministry about the situation some time ago, but he keeps putting it off. Crouch is going to be in a lot of trouble when that story about his son gets out, as it's sure to do. They'll be looking for a scapegoat, and Titus already has a target on his forehead because of the last time."

Marcella paused for breath. Petunia opened her mouth, and then closed it. "I'm not going to allow Titus to get in trouble helping you again. You ask too much, Petunia."

Explanations and justifications rose to Petunia's lips like bile, but she swallowed them. _I promised myself I wouldn't be defensive, and I'm going to keep that promise_. She looked at Marcella silently. _I was mightily amused by Marcella when she was on the attack before, but it's not so much fun when you're the target._

"What, nothing to say?" Marcella asked.

"No, you're right," Petunia sighed. "I have asked too much of Titus, and of you and Hector, for that matter; and I'm sorry."

Marcella looked suddenly rather deflated. "Titus is a fool, and Hector's another fool," she said. "But I'm not, and I say that we can't keep Crouch any further."

"I understand," Petunia said. "I'll look after it."

Marcella gave her a look. "Don't you start with that 'it's-all-my-fault' line you use, it's damned irritating!" she said sharply, and she charged back towards the floo, but not before Petunia caught a distinct whiff of embarrassment from her. _She's done this without Titus or Hector knowing about it, I'll wager, and now she's not sure how they will react._

So Petunia found herself acquiring yet another houseguest. The situation could have been worse; Crouch the Elder was very quiet, and ate his meals in his room, waited on by Winky, so that initially Petunia hardly ever saw him. It gave her the opportunity to study the situation in some detail, and decide that it would probably be best if Mr. Crouch avoided retribution for his past legerdemain with his son for as long as possible - perhaps even permanently. Best for her, that is; not to mention Sirius, Titus, Hector and Marcella. She was not at all sure that it mattered as much to the person in question; though she doubted that anyone would volunteer for Azkaban. Certainly Crouch the Younger had struggled bitterly against going back there, though neither Dumbledore nor Moody were in the mood to humour him.

Petunia took the trouble to discuss the matter with Pompey and Winky, setting out her tentative plans. Pompey offered her - as usual - some shrewd advice on furthering them; Winky made it clear that she would go along with anything that would not deprive her of her _raison d'etre_. Petunia then engaged Mr. Lightbody to send in a formal resignation of his Ministry post on behalf of Mr. Crouch, on the grounds of continuing ill-health and his doctor's recommendation. The lawyer also negotiated a generous settlement of his pension and benefits.

Petunia then organized Mr. Crouch's finances for him as best she could. The pension would help; he also owned a house. Unfortunately Crouch the Younger had seized most of his father's savings while he had Crouch the Elder under the Imperious curse, with only the locked-in investments surviving. Under the circumstances, Mr. Crouch could hardly complain to the goblins about this, and Petunia didn't plan to, either. But she agreed with Marcella that he needed supervision for some time to come. The point of the supervision was to ensure that he didn't incriminate any of the rest of them while he was still so weak. _That sounds absolutely awful, but Marcella is right. No more innocent people should suffer because of this, and therefore a guilty one isn't going to suffer the way he should. Not immediately, anyway._

Though Mr. Crouch had certainly suffered; of this, Petunia had no doubt. The self-confident bureaucrat had disappeared, and was undoubtedly gone for good. In his place was a man shattered in body and mind. He seemed to think he was residing in a country nursing home, and early on asked Petunia what her rates were. She opened her mouth to disclaim this notion and saw both Pompey and Winky frantically shaking their heads. Their message was unmistakeable: play along. So Petunia named a price which seemed to her to be likely, and fair, and Mr. Crouch assured her that he could pay it. She thanked him, and expected him to forget it, but even in his current state, his punctiliousness had survived. Forget it he did not; she was paid on the dot every week, in cash.

"I keep meeting this old duffer in the halls," said Harry said to her a week or so later. "Do we have a houseguest, by any chance, Tante? He seems to be living in the guest suite and is being looked after by the evil Miss Wink." The boys always called Winky this – though not to her face - for no good reason that Petunia could ever discover other than it amused them.

"Not a houseguest," Petunia said, relieved if not surprised that they had not apparently recognized Crouch. "A _paying_ guest."

This got the boys' attention, if not in a positive way. "Are you having money troubles, Tante?" Harry asked sharply. "You should let me get into my vault, and give you some money; I know there's plenty there. I've said that for years!" Dudley chimed in with: "Mum, if you're broke, why didn't you tell us, we're old enough to get summer jobs-!"

"Calm down!" Petunia said, raising her voice. "The finances are fine, and if they weren't _I'd _be the one to be getting a job. I'm doing it as a favour for Marcella." _Well, sort of_. "The man isn't sick enough to stay in St. Mungo's, but not well enough to go home, and he needs a place to stay. He offered to pay, and I accepted."

"I did notice he seems to think this is a hotel," Dudley said. "He asked me if we had an elevator. I had to break to him that we didn't. And he tipped me; I was so surprised that he was gone before I could tell him I wasn't a bellboy."

Harry gave a whoop of laughter, and Petunia relaxed. "Just be polite when you see him," she said, "And help him if he needs something."

"And if he tips us again?" Dudley asked.

Petunia sighed. "Accept graciously. It's easier than explaining."

"Definitely," said Harry.

"He's been very ill, and he's still a little muddled. He'll get better." _ I think._

The boys agreed to this readily enough. For some days, Mr. Crouch rested, and then one evening, Petunia was surprised to encounter him in the Manor library. He was reading one of the books there with evident interest. "You have an excellent library, Madam," he told her – he could rarely, if ever, remember her name, or his own for that matter. "I've seldom seen such a complete one."

"My family collected it," Petunia said, "and I can't read a good deal of it because a lot of the books are in several different foreign languages. I can manage to read French, a little Spanish, and some rudimentary Latin, but not much else."

It turned out that Mr. Crouch spoke many of those foreign languages, and he was thus able to inform her of the contents of the books. And it was Mr. Crouch who some days later discovered the diary of Cato and Cicero Mayhew.


	38. Chapter 38: A MINOR IN SLYTHERIN

Moi: Many interesting insights and suggestions, as usual...!

Susan M. M.: Yes, Petunia is making progress in the 'think-ahead, plot carefully department'. Despite the Gryffindor sorting, and the damn-the-torpedoes attitude that caused it, she's definitely got some Slytherin characteristics, too, perhaps honed from years of living with Vernon.

Jane: 'character-driven' is a high compliment in my book.

Glad to welcome some new readers this week, and to thank everyone who took the time to review. I always appreciate it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: A MINOR IN SLYTHERIN

_In which Dumbledore tells some of what he knows, and Algernon the Uncommon knows what he hasn't told. Yet._

Mr. Crouch brought the diary out from the library and carefully showed it to Petunia; it was a dusty old book, bound in black Morocco leather so worn it looked grey. Once it had been gilded; now only traces of that remained. Written inside on the flyleaf in old-fashioned copperplate was the caption: "Cato and Cicero Mayhem, Their Book." When Petunia first read this, she thought the surname as rendered was a misprint. Later on, she realized that it very definitely was not.

Cato and Cicero Mayhew, she knew from Pompey, were the older twin brothers of Cressida and her own ancestor, Catullus. They were both wizards, and that was about the extent what she had learned of them, other than Aberforth's comments about their involvement in breeding illegal creatures, chiefly dragons. The information Pompey was able to give her was second hand, unfortunately; he had not been old enough to remember them himself.

Mr. Crouch said meditatively: "What a very strange idea, to name twin boys after Cato the Censor and Marcus Tullius Cicero! Talk about the yin and the yang! Their father must have had some interesting ideas."

"You're not wrong about that, or so I hear," Petunia muttered. Two years of Latin and a survey course in ancient history in her teens had left her with only a vague idea about the identity of Marcus Tullius Cicero, and no clue at all regarding Cato the Censor. Mr. Crouch told her he was a notorious Roman conservative, while Cicero was a notable progressive, and a famous orator. _Somehow I don't think the Mayhew boys were interested in politics, or oratory._

Unfortunately, the copperplate inscription was probably the only readable section of the diary. Whichever of the twins had actually done the majority of the entries had a cramped, scrawling hand; the remainder of the entries were even less legible. Petunia suspected the diary had been a gift, and the inscription courtesy of the giver. She tried deciphering the first entry, and after an hour, gave it up as a bad job. Luckily, Mr. Crouch was much more patient. Because Petunia told him that she was looking for information on the breeding of Algy, he promised to work on the diary in his spare time, which was just about all of his time, or so it seemed to her.

Petunia tried asking Algy himself about the diary, which proved an exercise in frustration. It was obvious that he did probably know a good deal about the origins of the diary and its keepers, but he was unwilling to tell her very much about either of them. She feared that she knew why, but she still attempted to discover some of the truth. _A little cross-examination never hurt anyone._

"You were Cressida's familiar, weren't you?" she asked the little dragon. "And Cato and Cicero were her elder brothers."

"Yes, they were," said Algy admitted, after considerable hesitation.

"What happened to them?" Petunia asked.

Algy looked wary. "I'm not sure," he said evasively. _He's lying_.

"Oh, aren't you?" Petunia said sarcastically. "Aberforth told me that they bred dragons."

"Did they?" Algy said, innocently, "I wish I had asked them some questions about it, then."

Petunia beat back her exasperation, and said calmly, "Don't you know anything on the subject? You visit Hagrid quite frequently, don't you, and you always say it's to give him information about dragon husbandry. Or so you tell _me_."

Algy blinked, and looked uneasy, "Yes," he said, but she could not move him further on the subject. _I need to discover just what he's up to at Hagrid's hut. Probably something I'd disapprove of, if I know either one of them, and I know them both. Illegal still? Breeding giant spiders? Algy's considering Hagrid as a possible father for his witch? My God, I devoutly hope not the latter._

Petunia had also received the visit she was expecting from Hector and Titus, who came to see her to discuss the problem of Mr. Crouch the Elder, and Marcella's eviction of him from St. Mungo's. Titus was pale and tight-lipped, and very evidently mortified; he offered Petunia a stiff apology for Marcella's behaviour. "I understand that Marcella was pretty damn insulting when she dumped him on you, too," he said, not meeting Petunia's gaze. _Oh, lord, it's worse than I thought; but yes, that's a fair guess, Titus, given that she always is in these situations._

"Nothing serious," Petunia found herself saying, though her feelings had initially _had_ been hurt, especially by Marcella's final comment. "And she had a point. I dumped him on you first, and with even less warning; she was merely returning the non-favour, Titus, so please don't blame her."

Titus was not to be soothed, though, despite all Petunia's efforts in that direction. She asked him to take a look at Mr. Crouch and his quarters, to see how he was adapting to his new surroundings. It was really a ploy to allow her to interrogate Hector, because she wanted to know what was going on, and he was obviously bursting to tell her every last detail.

"You missed a rare treat," he told her when Titus was safely out of the way. "Marcella and Titus really got into it; someone giving her the word hasn't happened to her for years, if ever. He was furious! He's such a mild-mannered bloke in general, I never imagined he could get that angry. Though I certainly see his point; she treats him like a child sometimes. Well, let's be frank: most of the time. Me, too, now that I come to think about it."

Petunia felt wretchedly guilty. "I never meant to cause all that trouble, Hector," she said.

"Not to worry, Petunia," Hector said. "Marcella partially raised Titus, you know; his parents died fairly young. She's much too overbearing with nearly everybody, and she's needed an attitude adjustment for some time; believe me, it did her a world of good to get one. And frankly, it didn't do Titus any harm to give her one, either. He tried to force her to come here and apologize to you in person, you know; I need hardly say, she absolutely refused, and now he's not speaking to her and she's sulking. But he'll get over it, and so will she."

Petunia recognized this as an attempt to soothe _her_, and when Titus rejoined them, she hardly knew what to say to him. Luckily, in the interim, he seemed to have recovered his usual equilibrium. He was very pleased with Mr. Crouch's progress, he said, and thought that Winky seemed to be doing a good job of caring for him. The quarters appeared to suit him, too.

"There, you see?" Petunia said to him, with an attempt at a smile. "It's turning out for the best."

_Wrong thing to say, you idiot_. Titus' face immediately clouded. "Not if the Ministry discovers what happened," he said. "You'd be in a lot of trouble."

"Well, Titus, better me than you," Petunia said, frankly. "I certainly agree with Marcella on that. I'll take my chances with it, but so far, nobody seems to have guessed the truth, and I have to say that Mr. Crouch himself doesn't even appear to remember it."

After that, Titus relaxed a little, and he and Hector even agreed to stay to dinner. At Petunia's insistence, Mr. Crouch joined them, and both men exerted themselves to draw him out, and engage him in conversation. Initially, he did quite well, and appeared to enjoy their company; but by the end of the meal, he was tiring rapidly, and becoming querulous. Winky led him away to his quarters, telling Petunia in an aside that she would put him to bed.

"Still, not bad at all," Hector said. "In fact, very good, compared to what he was in St. Mungo's."

Their visit left Petunia thoughtful. Over the last week, she and Dumbledore had been negotiating the terms of the meeting that he had mentioned in Moody's office. He had wanted it to take place at the Castle, which Petunia vetoed. She preferred that the location to be on her ground, for once, and volunteered the dining room at the Manor. It was now in reasonably good shape, lacking only proper brocade curtains to complete the restoration. The mouldings had been repaired, the floor refinished, the walls washed and repainted; she had found a dining room suite in one of the attics. It was of dark Jacobean wood, heavily carved, with a long, narrow, plank table top. After re-upholstering this furniture, and refinishing the wood, it was quite attractive, and suited the room very well. Petunia found a carpet which responded to cleaning, and she felt that the whole effect was rather good, certainly better than the rickety collection of discarded furniture that had decorated the house when Dumbledore had last visited it.

On the subject of the meeting itself, however, she had some reservations. She and Dumbledore both agreed to the presence of Mad-Eye Moody, which turned out to be all that they could agree upon, without a good deal of wrangling. Dumbledore wanted the presence of Professors Snape and McGonagall. _I don't mind McGonagall, though she's rather blindly devoted to the Gospel According to St. Albus. Snape, I most certainly do mind. No qualifications on that score. _

"How do you know he won't spill everything to Voldemort?" Petunia asked bluntly. "I'll wager that he's done it before."

Was it her imagination, or did Dumbledore look startled? If so, it was only for a moment. "I trust Severus Snape," he said.

"Good for you," Petunia said drily. "I don't." But eventually, after some negotiation, she was obliged to accept Snape as part of the gathering. _That's compromise for you._

She also found that Dumbledore initially did not agree to the attendance of Aberforth. The Headmaster knew him, obviously, but said that being the proprietor of a run-down inn in Hogsmeade did not qualify him to attend such a top-secret meeting.

"At least he's not a Death-Eater," Petunia said pointedly. Dumbledore pretended that he did not hear her comment, but there were no further objections to Aberforth. Marcella Whiteoak, who was Petunia's other suggestion, proved also unacceptable to him. Petunia was not sure why, other than perhaps Marcella's tendency to dominate every gathering she participated in_. In his mind, that's his role, not hers. _Petunia stood her ground on this point, however, and he eventually agreed.

She wanted Marcella present for another reason; after careful reflection, Petunia felt that she had some fences to mend with her. _I can nurse my hurt feelings forever, or I might instead consider that Marcella, no matter how much of a human battering-ram she is in general, is a damned valuable ally, and I need as many allies as I can get. She also has a lot of contacts, which I can also use. And I even understand her feelings about protecting Titus; I feel exactly the same way about the boys._

So Petunia swallowed her pride and contacted Marcella directly to request that she attend the meeting as one of her supporters. The older woman seemed startled by the request, but she consented to it, if rather stiffly. She obviously recognized an olive branch when she saw one, and was prepared to grasp it. _I expect that she wants peace with Titus and Hector, too; and not only that, she's tired of sulking.  
_

Petunia also wanted the boys to attend, and was even prepared to argue in favour of Hermione Granger; but Dumbledore refused to allow it. "Not yet," was the only explanation that he would give her. She did carry the point about Pompey and Dobby, however. She had come to rely on Pompey's judgment and Dobby's utter loyalty to Harry, and both elves' exemplary information-gathering skills. Dumbledore shrugged, but agreed.

Petunia instructed Winky to lay low with Mr. Crouch in the guest suite on the day in question, warning her to keep her charge – and herself - quiet, and the elf readily agreed; though Algy, with his usual obliviousness to nuance, invited himself to the party. Or at least he perched on the back of Petunia's dining room chair, and simply refused to move.

"Algy," said Petunia, "you can't attend this meeting. It's private."

"Pompey's attending," said Algy, ominously. He hated to be excluded from anything. "And Dobby, too! How private can it be?" _Point taken. Didn't I promise myself that I'd quit treating him like a pet? _

"The important thing is, we require absolute discretion," Petunia said. "You wouldn't be able to talk to anyone about it, except me. Can you do that?"

"Yes, I can," Algy said, grittily.

"Even the boys, please, Algy," Petunia told him. "This is really important."

"Even the boys," he agreed.

"Alright, then," she said. "You can attend on one condition; if I ask you for information in the future, you won't pretend you don't know it if you do."

Algy's large yellow eyes glinted, and he considered this for a moment before he said: "I'll agree to that, but I want a condition, too, in exchange: you don't send me back to Romania, or ever threaten to do so again. You have no idea how homesick I was there! The boys say you don't mean it and you're joking, but it doesn't appear like that to me – you _do_ seem to mean it, and it's not funny at all."

It had never occurred to Petunia that her half-joking threats would be taken too seriously_. I should have known better, however; if he doesn't understand sarcasm, why would he understand humour? Make that would-be humour. _She heard herself lecturing poor Charlie Weasley on the proper care and protection of dragons, and felt suddenly ashamed.

"The boys are right; I didn't mean it," she told him. "But you're right, too; I had no right to threaten you like that, even as a joke. I'm genuinely sorry, Algy."

"It's alright," Algy muttered. He nudged the side of her head with his own, and she patted his muzzle gently. _If we had a peace pipe, we could smoke it; and Algy could even provide the fire. Dragons do have their uses._

"The safety of Harry depends on you not telling anyone what you hear today, even if you like and trust them," she said to him. "That means Hagrid, too."

Algy nodded, looking anxious.

"And Algy?" Petunia said. "Please, please, _please_ don't interrogate Mad-Eye Moody on the subject of his suitability to father your witch. Not today."

"Not tomorrow, either," said Algy. "My witch is not going to inherit that eye!" He didn't understand why Petunia laughed out loud and gave him a hug. "Witches are very strange," he observed.

"You are so right, and wizards are even stranger. I'll rely on your discretion, Algy."

So he was perched on the back of her chair when her guests came calling, that fateful Sunday afternoon. When Dumbledore commented mildly on his presence, she said simply: "Algy stays." The little dragon sat up straighter, and gave the Headmaster - and a scowling Pompey - a triumphant look.

"He speaks, does he not, Mrs. Dursley?" Dumbledore asked her. "Is that safe, do you think?"

"I trust him," Petunia said, echoing Dumbledore's words about Snape, and giving him a pointed look. "He's a dragon, not a parrot, and he's promised me he will be discreet."

Dumbledore flushed a little, the second time he had done so that day; the first was when Petunia introduced him to Aberforth. They did not shake hands, but simply acknowledged each other's presence with a curt nod. Petunia, who was curious about what sort of relationship they had, noted this for future consideration.

Petunia convened the meeting – it was her house, after all - but Dumbledore took the lead, explaining to the guests why they were there. Petunia was sure he had given a heads up to McGonagall and Snape prior to the meeting, but appreciated his courtesy in pretending that he hadn't. _If it is in fact courtesy, which is a guess._

Dumbledore explained to the group what they had discovered in Moody's trunk and the actions and fate of the younger Crouch, and his connection to both Voldemort and Pettigrew. "Mrs. Dursley proposed that we keep the fact that we have discovered the impersonation of Professor Moody quiet in the hope that Voldemort will not find out that we know, at least immediately," Dumbledore said. "We could thus possibly discover his exact location, more of his plans, and perhaps even capture him. This is a clever idea, but there is something of a problem with it."

Petunia's head went up. "And that is?" she asked.

"Even if we knew where he was, even if we captured him," Dumbledore said, "I'm not sure how much good it would do, if any. Even in a weakened state, Voldemort is an exceedingly strong, acutely unprincipled wizard. I don't think he could be held in a prison, even Azkaban, for very long."

"Gellert Grindelwald is still in Nurmengard," Aberforth said in a low voice, to no one in particular, or so Petunia thought. His eyes were downcast.

After a rather long silence, Dumbledore said: "Indeed; as you say. However, I doubt that even Nurmengard Prison would hold Voldemort."

"Well, then, what say if we just forget prisons, and have him executed?" Petunia asked. "He's killed enough people to qualify, I'd say, including my sister, and my parents. I have no objection to a trial, though I don't doubt it would be a complete circus, and a credit to no one, but that would rid us of him, wouldn't it?"

"I'm afraid that won't work, either, Mrs. Dursley," Dumbledore said. "Or he would have already have died at the time the spell with which he tried to kill young Mr. Potter rebounded on him. He didn't die then, however, even though that spell was an extremely powerful, unbridled _Avada Kevdavra, _cast by himself. It should have killed him instantaneously. It didn't. I believe there was a very good reason that it didn't kill him, and that's what we have to deal with now."

"What are you saying, Headmaster?" Marcella asked, sharply.

"I'm saying that I don't think he can in fact die," Dumbledore said. "Not right at the moment, in any case."

"How on earth can he not be able to die?" Petunia asked, exasperated. "Has he sold his soul to the devil?"

"In fact, that's exactly what he has done, so to speak," Dumbledore said. "Voldemort has always been very interested in the notion of immortality. To an unhealthy degree, I'm afraid, and from a very young age. When the rebounding _Avada Kedavra_ failed to kill him thirteen years ago, I became rather suspicious as to why that might be. When I first met him in a state orphanage, on his eleventh birthday, I was unhappy to note that he was already a petty thief, an extortionist, and a determined persecutor of his fellow orphans. Even the staff of the institution were afraid of him. He was quite proud of this fact, too, and took no trouble to hide it from me. In fact, as well as being incapable of death, he's incapable of shame, an equally dreadful fate, I feel."

He looked around the table. Everyone looked rather surprised by this sentiment, with the exception of Aberforth, who was studying his hands with great attention. Petunia asked curiously: "You knew Voldemort as a child?"

"Oh, yes," Dumbledore said. "He attended Hogwarts, in fact, while I was the Transfiguration Professor there. He was then known as Tom Riddle, and was much favoured by the Headmaster at that time, Armando Dippet. Of course, the Headmaster did not know that his rather ordinary name and handsome face disguised some interesting facts – for one thing, young Mr. Riddle was the last known descendant of Salazar Slytherin. For another, he was a Parselmouth. And for a third, even as early as his adolescence, he was a murderer – it was he who released the basilisk from the Chambers of Secrets, using his ability to speak its tongue, and it was he who directed it to kill a student. But Riddle was very skilled at hiding his true nature, and as a result, he had many adherents, who pitied him for being a penniless, if brilliant, orphan. The death of the unfortunate student was laid at the door of one of Hagrid's pets, an acromantula, and as a result, he was most unfairly expelled, while Riddle escaped any consequences for his actions, for the first but not the last time."

"Colour me surprised," muttered Petunia.

"Exactly so, Mrs. Dursley," Dumbledore continued. "I have looked into Riddle's background in some detail over the years. He is the son of a Muggle father and a witch mother. They were married, but evidence shows that the elder Riddle was coerced; I believe Merope Gaunt – that was his mother's name – used a love potion. He deserted her when the effects of the potion wore off. She was pregnant at the time, and died just after the child's birth."

"He's a half-blood?" Petunia exclaimed in astonishment. "The pure-blood extremist isn't pure-blooded himself?"

"Indeed not," Dumbledore said. "Quite ironic, isn't it, though I don't doubt that Riddle believes that his descent from Salazar Slytherin mitigates any non-wizarding heritage he might have. And have it he does – he is actually descended from a good Muggle family who lived in a Yorkshire village."

"You're a half-blood," Aberforth said neutrally.

"I am indeed," Dumbledore said, after a pause. "I have, however, never pretended otherwise."

Aberforth stared at him. Petunia wondered what on earth was going on.

"And Voldemort does?" she asked, to break the increasingly uncomfortable silence.

"Well, I doubt his adherents care to ask him on the point; for obvious reasons," Dumbledore said. "They have just assumed that he _is_ a pure-blood, I suppose. While still an adolescent, he began to be fascinated by various means of achieving immortality, as I have said, and according to what the Hogwarts Potions Professor of that day, Horace Slughorn, told me, showed an interest in a particular means of achieving it. Quite typically, the method he chose was extreme, forbidden Dark Magic. Professor Slughorn was unable to tell him very much about it, but he does recall his questions on the subject."

He had the complete attention of everyone at that table.

"Do any of you know what horcruxes are?" Dumbledore asked.

There was a long silence around the table, and then Algy chirped: "I do."


	39. Chapter 39: THE AGENTS OF MAYHEM

Yes, I'm aware this is an awful slog of exposition and that it is information that you already know, which makes it boring. In fact, "The Goblet of Fire" contains not one but two monologuing villains – Voldemort and Crouch the Younger – which is perhaps one too many; but I wasn't able to think of a better solution. Sorry.

WrenBlack: Book six, actually.

Moi: As usual, a lot of interesting suggestions and observations from you. Are Hagrid and Algy going to follow the Modern Prometheus route? Tune in for the answer, possibly next chapter. I'll be able to tell for sure when it's written; I only the title of it so far, and that will probably be changed.

Risi, Twilight, vidi, and all those who reviewed (including not written, who faithfully reviews each chapter) many thanks.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: THE AGENTS OF MAYHEM

_In which Petunia contemplates the awful possibility that her collateral ancestors were not only Nazi wizards, but basilisk breeders to boot._

Dumbledore gave Petunia a 'see-I-told-you' look, though being proved right – in his opinion – about Algy's presence seemed to put him in a better mood.

Petunia noticed Pompey glaring at Algy, and then the elf cleared his throat loudly. Algy looked down at him, and seemed suddenly abashed. He hid his face under Petunia's arm. Petunia petted his neck, and mouthed against his ear: "Tell me later."

The little dragon gave no sign of having heard her, but he raised his head, looked up at Dumbledore, and said, with a certain dignity: "I spoke out of turn; sorry. I don't know what they are, really."

Dumbledore operated under the assumption that Algy was a normal dragon writ small. He gave him an indulgent smile, and said, kindly, if rather condescendingly: "Not at all; I understand that you might be a trifle excited."

Pompey snorted softly. Algy stared straight ahead, and bore it. Petunia was unwillingly impressed by this hitherto undemonstrated ability to hold his tongue under stress.

"Horcruxes," said Dumbledore, returning to his monologue, "are the very darkest magic, so dark that there are very few sources of information about them. Only two wizards, in fact, have been known to create them: Herpo the Foul, who originated the technique; and of course, in our own time, Tom Riddle."

"Herpo was, compared to Riddle, a not very ambitious amateur; he only created one horcrux. Riddle, as was his wont, carried things to extremes and created, or was hoping to create, seven of them, the traditional lucky and most magical of numbers. I don't believe he managed all seven; but I do believe that he was planning to make one as a result of killing Mr. Potter and his parents; whether it was the sixth or seventh, I cannot be sure."

"The problem with such ambitions is that it weakened his very being. A horcrux is a torn piece of the creator's soul, which is secreted in a vessel or object. While the torn piece or pieces exist apart from the original soul, the wizard cannot be killed, even if his body dies. And that's exactly what happened to Voldemort when his _Avada Kedavra_ rebounded on him when he attempted to kill Mr. Potter. Though he was still alive, it was a dreadful sort of half-life without a real body."

"Do you know why it rebounded?" Petunia asked. "Harry was only a baby; it can't have been anything that he did."

"It wasn't," Dumbledore agreed. "It was his mother who blocked the spell by giving her own life to save his. Old magic, the type of which Riddle doesn't understand and never will. The notion of sacrifice of oneself for the benefit of others is foreign to him."

"Why was he aiming for Harry at all?" This from Marcella.

"He had heard a prophecy about a child born at the same time as Harry destroying him," Dumbledore said.

"A prophecy?" Petunia said sharply. "Who made it? You?"

"Not I," said Dumbledore, and then added, rather reluctantly: "Professor Trelawney."

"Sybill Trelawney!" Petunia exclaimed. "You must be joking! Even Voldemort isn't that stupid! She's the type that drinks gin all night, yet can't even predict the major hangover she's going to have in the morning! Are you seriously telling me that Voldemort believed any prophecy made by her?"

"Well, Mrs. Dursley, isn't there a Muggle saying that even a broken crock is correct twice per day?"

"This isn't funny, Headmaster," Petunia said severely. "And that's clock, not crock, even if the latter is more accurate in Sybill's case. In case you don't recall, two other people died on that night."

"I don't forget that, not for an instant," Dumbledore said. "Voldemort, in common with other people of his type, is intensely superstitious. He believed what he was told, but he didn't hear all the prophecy, mainly because his informant didn't, either."

"Who did hear all of it?" Marcella asked, looking suspicious.

"I did," Dumbledore said. "Sybill made the prophecy to me; she had applied for the post of Divination Professor at Hogwarts, and the prophecy was made during our interview. And this was the prophecy entailed - "

He produced his wand again and this time conjured up a miniature Sybill Trelawney. She looked much younger, and spoke in a harsh, guttural voice, quite unlike her usual breathy accents:

"_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ..._"

There was silence in the room for quite some time.

Finally Petunia collected herself and spoke up: "What makes you think it refers to Harry, apart from the date of birth?" she asked.

"In fact, it could have been either Harry, or another wizarding child born a day before him," Dumbledore admitted.

"You don't mean Dudley!" Petunia exclaimed, feeling a surge of utter panic.

"Was Mr. Dursley born July 30th?" Dumbledore seemed rather startled.

"Yes, he was! The same year! And it's bad enough having this psychopathic wizard after one of them, let alone both!"

"I wasn't referring to Mr. Dursley, in fact," Dumbledore said. "I meant Neville Longbottom, who was also born July 30th that same year, and also fits the description made in the prophecy."

"Why did he think it was Harry, then?" Petunia asked, perplexed. "Isn't Neville Longbottom a pureblood?"

"He is indeed, and that's the odd thing about it; of the two boys, Voldemort chose the half-blood one," Dumbledore said. "Of course, he himself is a half-blood. But he did choose between the two candidates, and once he did, the prophecy is clear: "the Dark Lord will him mark him as his equal." Which Voldemort in fact did."

"The scar," Petunia said dully.

"Exactly."

"Who told Voldemort about the prophecy?" Petunia asked, reviving a little. "Was it Pettigrew?"

"Certainly he's a candidate," Dumbledore said smoothly. Petunia noticed an ugly flush on Snape's sallow face, remembered Dumbledore's surprise when she mentioned that she thought would Snape inform on them to Voldemort, did the addition and subtraction, and came up a fairly credible solution. She restrained herself with difficulty and said nothing, however. _I'll bring that up in private_. _I may need it later_. _And if it was Snape, all hell is going to break loose_.

"I believe that Riddle made several horcruxes, not realizing – or perhaps not caring - how much he destabilized his soul each time he did so. And for each creation, he committed a murder. As I noted previously, when he was a child, he had niffler-like instincts: he liked bright shiny objects, even to the extent that he was prepared to steal them from his fellow orphans; and his other characteristic was that he was very strongly attached to all things connected to Hogwarts. He used, I believe, objects that had importance to him and his past, and to the school when he produced the horcruxes.

"Such as, Albus?" Minerva spoke for the first time.

"The diary destroyed by Mr. Potter in his second year," Dumbledore said. "The boy described to me what happened in the Chamber of Secrets, and from what he told me, I'm almost certain that it was not only Riddle's school diary, but that he had used it – while still at Hogwarts - to create a horcrux. The death of the student at that time was not accidental, you see."

"Just one minute here," Petunia said. "You've known for sure about this for two whole years, and never a word to me? We could have used that time to search for these horrible things!"

For the first time, Dumbledore became rather defensive. "I needed time to discover if my theory was true – to discover more information – "

"If we weren't wasting time now, I'd have more to say," Petunia said grimly. _What does it matter? He'll merely make more excuses. He's secretive by nature, and a loner as well. It never occurs to him to ask for help, even when he needs it. He shares with Voldemort a firm belief in his own cleverness, and that same cleverness can mislead both of them, I think.  
_

"The diary came from Lucius Malfoy, didn't it?" Petunia asked, changing the subject, and Dumbledore nodded in relief. "Patterns develop, you see. He asked Lucius to guard the horcrux, but Lucius was not informed as to what it was. As time went on, Lucius was less and less careful with it, and in a moment of spite, he slipped it into Ginny Weasley's school books. I'm guessing that some other loyal Death Eaters may harbour one or perhaps two of the remaining horcruxes, not knowing of course what they are. Voldemort would never give them that information, nor indeed that much power over him unless he trusted them absolutely. And even then, the limited trust he had in Lucius was misplaced."

"Do you know of any others?" Snape spoke for the very first time, his voice expressionless. _That's right, Snape, don't miss your cue._

"Yes," Dumbledore said, "though I don't know their location; at least not for certain. I have been interested in this question for some time, and I was able, through investigation and – I will be frank – legilimency, to determine that one is a ring – " here he conjured a three-dimensional heavy-looking man's ring, with an odd-looking symbol on its bezel, "belonging to Riddle's maternal family. Another is a small gold cup belonging to Helga Hufflepuff." He then conjured the cup, too, so that they could see it. "A third is a locket reputed to have belonged to Salazar Slytherin." The locket appeared beside the other two.

Minerva said: "What about the two other founders?"

"Good point," Dumbledore said. "The only known artifact of Rowena Ravenclaw is a diadem said to be enchanted by her to increase the wisdom of its wearer. It looks like this," He conjured it and added it to the line of items hanging in the air. It was shaped like a raven, with the head at the top, great diamond wings, a cushion-shaped sapphire forming the bird's breast, and a round and marquise diamond hanging below that. "She is wearing it in a portrait that is hanging at the school. Unfortunately, the diadem was stolen from her, centuries ago, and its whereabouts are currently unknown."

"And Gryffindor?" Minerva asked.

"That's the odd thing," Dumbledore said. "There is a relic of him, too; the Sword of Gryffindor, which resides in my office, and which young Mr. Potter used to destroy the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. I have tested this object, and there is no horcrux in it."

Petunia counted. "If you're right, that's five – the diary, the ring, the cup, the locket and the ring, only one of which we know the location of – the diary. Which of them was he going to use as a receptacle he was planning to create when he murdered Harry's parents?"

"I don't know," Dumbledore said. "The house imploded with the force of the _Avada Kedavra_. In fact, I think he may have used all of the five already. What item he planned to use on that Hallowe'en night, I cannot say."

Petunia sighed. "Did anyone search the ruins of their house?"

"Well, as a matter of fact," Dumbledore said, looking rather surprised. "I don't think so."

Petunia closed her eyes and then opened them. "First order of business, then," she said.

"As you say, Mrs. Dursley," Dumbledore said, "I will have Severus investigate - "

For the very first time in her entire life, Petunia felt sorry for Severus Snape. The look on his face told her everything she needed to know about his feelings regarding a suggestion that he conduct a search of the ruins of the house where Lily had been murdered years before. _He'd rather take a flying leap into an active volcano, and do three laps in the molten lava. I don't relish it, either. But it's the only way I can be sure it's done, and done properly. _ "No, Headmaster, I'll do it," she said. "It should be done by a relative, I think."

Dumbledore tried to tactfully suggest that she was neither experienced enough nor magical enough to conduct such a search. "That's not a problem," said Marcella. "I'll assist Petunia with the matter." The look she gave him dared him to accuse _her_ of insufficient experience or magic. Dumbledore, as it turned out, did not dare; though he obviously disliked this solution, he agreed.

"We need a list of prominent Death Eaters who still have vaults at Gringotts," Petunia said. "Can you obtain such information?" she asked Dumbledore.

"It would be difficult, but yes, I think so," Dumbledore said.

"In a week?" Dumbledore, looking surprised yet again, agreed to the short turn-around.

Petunia asked Minerva to conduct a search for any information about Horcruxes and the founder's relicts in the Hogwarts library, and any other one she could find. Moody would await orders from Voldemort. Snape was delegated to see what he could discover in Slytherin House and on the Death Eater circuit, and Aberforth was to keep a similar ear open to his clientele at the Hog's Head. Pompey and Dobby would investigate through the house elf network, which, Pompey assured her, was very efficient. The meeting broke up with an agreement to meet again the next Saturday.

Algy was preparing to take wing, probably to the kitchens, where he was used to snagging a morsel or two as a mid-day snack. Petunia stopped him, and told Pompey to fetch Mr. Crouch from the guest suite. "Tell Calpurnia to make him a nice steak and kidney pie for his supper, that should keep her occupied for the time being."

When Pompey left the room, Algy asked her: "Why do you call Winky Calpurnia?"

"Because Pompey prefers that she be called so; he wants the elves in this household to be treated with a certain respect. The same way _you_ want to be treated, in fact," Petunia said pointedly.

Algy looked a little abashed, as Petunia hoped he would. She said: "I want you and Pompey to stop fighting, Algy. We're in dire straits here, and we need to be allies, not enemies."

Algy's head went up. "He sent me to Romania!" he cried. "I didn't know a soul there, and most of the big dragons laughed at me and bullied me because I'm little! They would hardly talk to me at all, and the wizards weren't much better."

"Pompey didn't know that you wouldn't be happy there, did he? There were no witches here after Cressida died, and there wouldn't be for years, and perhaps he thought you'd be happier with other dragons about."

"He didn't care one whit about _my_ happiness!" Algy exclaimed. "Just his own!"

Petunia thought that this was a pretty fair assumption, and decided to let the matter rest for the moment, resolving to take it up later with Pompey, who now shepherded Mr. Crouch the Elder into the room. The wizard was carrying the diary of the Mayhew twins cradled carefully in his arms; Petunia noticed that he had wrapped it in a towel. _He must think that I want a report on its contents._

"Madame," he said, bowing to her politely. _One of these days, he's going to remember my name. Not very soon, obviously._

He laid the wrapped book on the table and they then sat down, Algy perching on Petunia's chair back, and Pompey leaning against her chair.

"Mr. Crouch, have you ever heard of horcruxes?" Petunia asked him.

Mr. Crouch turned rather pale, and for a moment Petunia wondered if she ought to involve him in this at all. There was a pause, and then he said, with some hesitation: "Yes, I have _heard_ of them; but they are strictly forbidden by law, and to be frank, I've never seen one."

"_Lord_ Voldemort," Petunia said, giving the honorific a sardonic inflection, "apparently had every objection to dying like everyone else in the wizarding world. Too mundane for him, I suppose. According to Albus Dumbledore, he created at least five horcruxes, and maybe more, and this is why he didn't really die back when he tried to kill Harry Potter thirteen years ago, and ended up with an _Avada Kedarva_ – his own, no less – right between the eyes."

Mr. Crouch was horrified. "Five horcruxes!" he exclaimed. _He obviously understands what that means_.

"He was aiming at seven in all, according to the Headmaster," Petunia said. "Not knowing when to stop is obviously characteristic of him."

Mr. Crouch looked stricken, and Petunia judged it best to move on. "So, Algy," she said to the dragon, "can you tell us where _you_ heard about horcruxes? Who told you about them?"

The little dragon was evasive. "No one told me about them, exactly; I just heard what they were saying."

"They?"

"The agents," Algy muttered, looking furtive.

"The agents?" Petunia repeated, baffled. "Whom do you mean? Not real estate agents, surely?"

Pompey gave her an exasperated look. "He means the Agents of Mayhem," he said, soberly. "That's what they called themselves, Mistress Cressida's two older brothers."

"The people who wrote this diary, then?" Petunia asked, tapping it with her finger as it lay on the table.

Both Pompey and Algy nodded. "Aberforth told me that the Mayhews weren't Death Eaters, though," Petunia said.

"Master Cassius wasn't," Pompey said evasively. "Nor was their mother, nor their sister. And obviously not Master Catullus." _Given that he was a Squib, it would be quite a trick if he was_.

"What was their mother's name?" Petunia asked curiously, hoping that he wouldn't say the surname of someone she knew and disliked.

"Mistress Octavia was born a Potter," Pompey said.

"Was she related to Harry's father, then?" Petunia asked, surprised.

"Yes, I believe so," Pompey said. _My God, I was related to my brother-in-law and never even knew it. That's the wizarding world for you._

"That leaves the two other members of the family," Petunia said bluntly. "Were they Death Eaters? Tell me."

"Pompey doesn't know," Algy said. Pompey scowled, but didn't contradict him.

"Do you, then, Algy?"

"I'm not sure what happened," Algy said. "Exactly. I do know they were experimenting. Cassius Mayhew liked dragons, and he had started a breeding program for Welsh greens in the Forbidden Forest. He bred me as a familiar for his daughter, and because she was a little girl, he reduced my size. The Agents took it a step further. They were breeding basilisks."

Petunia gasped, and Pompey scowled even harder. "Don't take his word for anything!" he exclaimed.

"Before we start fighting about this," Petunia said, raising a hand," I'll ask Mr. Crouch a question: have you found out anything from the diary, sir?"

Mr. Crouch started, and then leaned forward and slowly unwrapped the book on the table, and opened it.

"The diarists were apparently concerned about their work being read," he said. "I discovered that the entries aren't readable for a good reason: they're ensorcelled to appear both illegible and as more unusual foreign languages, to boot. The first entry is in Icelandic, in fact. Each entry is in a different language; the second one is in Faroese, for instance."

He tapped the page, and the scrawling handwriting seemed to dissolve and then reformed itself into a neat, legible paragraph – in English.


	40. Chapter 40 AFTER MIDNIGHT

I can't believe we're here at Chapter 40, and no end in sight. (!) This story seems to be expanding sideways and backwards instead of going forward. I'm trying to get to the Severitus, since I've had several complaints about _not_ getting there, but no luck so far, mainly because the horcruxes have been moved up in the story line, and brought a barge load of exposition in their wake.

Moi: a long and highly interesting commentary; I'm going to integrate some of your ideas (if you don't mind), most notably the notion that Voldemort would have proceeded on to Neville, had he the chance. You're right, of course. He's never one to underdo something when he could overdo it.

Quacked: Enjoyed your detailed review. I hadn't really thought that no one knew Albus and Aberforth were related, (more like everyone knows, but think Petunia does, too), but it makes sense, so I think I will use that, too.

PrincessBetty: You're right that Harry is not the same as in the books, basically because though his circumstances are much worse after his parents' deaths, he still has a steady source of affection. Petunia is a problematic parent at times, mainly because of her lack of self-esteem, but she does try to protect him.

Many thanks to all who reviewed.

CHAPTER FORTY: AFTER MIDNIGHT

_In which Petunia visits two different versions of the past, and is asked an impertinent question.  
_

It didn't take long for Petunia to determine that though translation into English helped somewhat, the diary entries were full of short forms, initials, and ciphers, the exact meaning of which were often known only to their makers. Mr. Crouch translated the first twenty entries from their various languages and with Algy's (and occasionally Pompey's) help, they were able to assign identities to people frequently referred to in the diary variously as A, B, C, and D. 'A' was the Agents' father, Cassius Mayhew; 'B' was their mother, Octavia Potter Mayhew; 'C' was their sister, Cressida Mayhew; and their brother, the unfortunate Squib Catullus, drew a 'D' in the diary as he had in life. (Petunia, who felt that she had been assigned that very letter in her own family, had nothing but sympathy for him.) CA was Cato; CI was Cicero. Luckily Mr. Crouch seemed particularly adept at assigning meanings to some of the short forms and ciphers; he told Petunia that he had once worked as a code breaker and translator in his youth, and she could well believe it.

The first entry, when translated and deciphered, read, roughly:

_Mother gave us this diary for Xmas. We aren't fooled; ever since we were sorted into Slytherin, she's been worried about the company we keep. She should know better. But she's a Gryffindor and Father's a Hufflepuff, so she doesn't understand how we ended up in the Snake Pit. She's not happy about us being Parselmouths either. We didn't volunteer, hein? But the snake-speak should have warned her ahead of time about which house we'd be in. No doubt she intends to read all the entries in this diary, and see what evil lurks in our nasty little Bushmaster hearts. Good luck on that._

In another handwriting, same entry:

_CA, you are a git._

Back to the first script:

_CI, you are right. _

The second entry read:

_CA: After Midnight. Father took us to the Forbidden Forest tonight to check on the dragons. Tully [Catullus] wanted to go with us, but Mother doesn't trust us with him anymore & she not only said so, she said no. Charming. _

_CI: You never know, we might sacrifice him to Baal, or something._

_CA: Shut yr face, moron. Everybody knows we sacrifice to Beezlebub._

The third entry read:

_CA: After Midnight. Back to HSoWW [Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardy]. The usual faces in the usual places, some of them the usual disgraces. It rhymes, but it certainly isn't poetry. As usual, Dip[pet] is a dip. Slytherin a Snake Pit, and the snakes this semester all seem to be cobras. Lots of venom._

_CI: Dip's not alone._

_CA: Oh, shut it, wanker._

The first entries seemed to be disinterested, as if the boys were merely going through the motions of summarizing their days, and mocking their mother's too-evident anxiety. Petunia was amused to learn that sarcasm and over-protective parents seemed to run in the Mayhew family. A few months in, however, the diary entries took a turn and became longer, and the boys stopped most of the mockery, and appeared as if they were actually trying to use the diary to analyze and solve a problem. Mr. Crouch reported that at this point they had started placing translation spells on the diary; the first entries had originally had been _en plein_.

The problem's name in the diaries was designated as 'X'. Petunia groaned in frustration, but Mr. Crouch counselled patience: "The more information we get, the easier it will be to determine whom – or what - they are referring to." He agreed to continue to translate the diaries, with Algy and Pompey helping him; Petunia could only thank them. She certainly would never have managed it on her own.

Two days later, Petunia met with Hagrid and Marcella for the expedition to Godric's Hollow to inspect the ruins of the Potter home there. Dumbledore insisted that Hagrid accompany them; he had discovered the ruins of the house thirteen years ago, and the Headmaster suggested that he might remember something from that time. Petunia generally found Hagrid a bit of a trial; undoubtedly he was a good-hearted man, and she had noted his kindness to the boys, but his obliviousness to danger was irritating, and sometimes alarming. He also seemed to be a convinced acolyte of Dumbledore, which was a quality she distrusted. Still, he was very strong, and Petunia feared that quality might be necessary for this day's work. _And I suppose that his presence will spare Dumbledore the trouble of using Legilimency to discover how our mission went._

Petunia had never visited Godric's Hollow previously. It was a smaller village than Hogsmeade, and only partially wizarding in composition. The party floo'd into the village pub, which was a wizarding concern, though it took the precaution of situating the floo in a private back room, away from Muggle eyes. From there they walked to the remains of the Potter house.

It was a pretty village, and in the natural order of things, Petunia might have enjoyed a visit there, if perhaps not at this time of year. But she had not been able to sleep the night before, nor had she been able to eat breakfast that morning. She had begun to dread what she might see in the house, to the point which she now wished she had let Severus Snape do the search, and be damned to his feelings, a notion which shamed her.

The house stood back from the lane. Petunia looked at the numbers on it – which looked reasonably intact from that angle – and said "This is it," in a low voice. Her stomach still felt queasy from the floo trip, and the prospect before them didn't help.

At one time, she thought that it must have been an attractive house, a half-timbered, two-storey cottage, with old-fashioned diamond-paned windows. Whatever had happened there, however, had heavily damaged the back of the house - which looked like it had be reduced to matchsticks, and dangerous-looking matchsticks at that.

"Has anyone disturbed it since then?" Petunia asked Hagrid. She was shivering, though she tried to hide that under her robe, and was wishing herself elsewhere. _Anywhere else, in fact_.

"No," Hagrid said, "Dumbledore didn't want it disturbed. It's got 'notice-me-not' spells on it, o' course - for the Muggles, that is – and a preservation spell, too. Dumbledore did that one himself, I saw him do it, right after -" He broke off.

"He gave me instructions on how to reverse the spell," Marcella interjected in her dry voice, "so that we can enter," and she raised her wand and did just that.

They went up the walk, and silently Marcella and Hagrid hung back and allowed Petunia to push the front door open. It wasn't locked.

The house's entrance hall was nearly intact. This is where James Potter's body had been found, at the foot of the stairs, according to Hagrid. "Right there," he said gruffly, pointing it out. Petunia forced herself to look for anything that might be, or might have been intended to be, a horcrux. It was not too easy; the place had a thick layer of dust everywhere, and motes of dust danced in the shafts of light from the opened door. The question was, had Voldemort made one horcrux or two during that night?

Involuntarily, Petunia looked up to the second floor. Also according to Hagrid, Lily had been killed in the nursery, up those stairs. _I didn't attend her funeral, did I? I don't remember. I don't even remember attending my parents' funerals, either, though I must have done so, wouldn't you think? There are great gaps in my memory for that time. I don't know why, and I wish that I did. I wish that I was outside right now, too. It's awfully hot and close in here, despite the season, or am I just sweating because this robe is too heavy?_

She stared at the stairway for a long time, until Marcella cleared her throat. "Do you want to wait down here, Petunia?" she asked finally. There was just a tincture of disdain in her voice, enough to stiffen Petunia's backbone.

"No, we'll all go up," she responded, though she longed to be out of this horrible place, "but in a minute. Let's complete the search down here first." _I'm just delaying things, aren't I? Oh, yes, I certainly am; and by the way Marcella's looking at me, she knows it._

She forced herself to open the door to the right, and they found themselves in a drawing room. It must have been a charming room, once upon a time, with pale wood panelling, and comfortable-looking furniture. It was dusty, but in reasonably good preservation. The library was on the other side of the house, and it, too, was mostly intact. There was a large desk, with locked drawers, which Petunia used _reserare _on – Marcella gave her a startled look – and the spell worked. They discovered a sheath of papers in the desk drawers, mostly to do with Potter family matters. The death certificates of James Potter's parents – they were for the same day, Petunia noted dully; his and Lily's birth certificates; their marriage certificate, and Harry's birth certificate were all there. Petunia produced the cloth shopping bag she had brought for the purpose and shoved everything that she thought might or should belong to Harry into it. There were some business-related documents which she also took.

The kitchen was in the basement, and as such had escaped much of the damage that had ravaged the back of the house on its upper storeys. It was old-fashioned in style, Petunia noted, the sort you saw in homes built early in the century; dark and a little dank, but tidy. _Designed for servants_. She stared around it. Table, chairs, pantry, wood stove, icebox - Icebox! On a sudden hunch, she hurried over and opened the icebox, and among the blackened remains of mouldy food, discovered in the upper right hand corner, as she expected to, a box wrapped in oilcloth.

She brought it out and unwrapped it on the table, while Marcella and Hagrid moved forward to see what she was doing. The box was taped shut, but the adhesive was old and tore away easily. Inside was a velvet case containing a delicate emerald and diamond necklace with matching earrings and a brooch. _What used to be called a demi-parure, I think_. They weren't in the usual rather heavy wizarding style of jewellery, and the case was from Garrard's. _Wedding present, I'm guessing here, probably from James to Lily. Muggle-made jewellery for his Muggle-born bride. _There were some other items, as well; a gold bracelet, a gold pocket watch and chain (wizard in style and evidently belonging to James); Harri Evans' engraved gold watch fob, which he had won in a bicycle race as an adolescent; a gold choker; a locket with baby pictures in it; a silver chain with a St. Christopher's medal as a pendant; a ring of Welsh gold; a diamond ring; a crucifix.

Marcella and Hagrid stood watching her. "How did you know that was there?" Marcella asked her.

Petunia tried to smile, but wasn't quite able to do so. "My mother always kept her keepsakes there," she said. "She warned us that thieves looked in the obvious places. We both learned that lesson well, as you see. My mother's jewellery survived the fire that the Death Eaters used to destroy their house, but only because she had it hidden it in the freezer, and Lily and I both knew to look for it there. Some of these things originally belonged to my parents – I recognize them - and they survived a second time." _Though they're the only things that did. I remember the day when the estate lawyers sent me my share of Mum's things. I cried all night, and Vernon said I was being too emotional, because God forbid I should experience anything as déclassé as grief, and God absolutely forbid that he should comfort me when I did._

Marcella said, "That emerald necklace doesn't look like it would be suitable for a you-know-what." She looked pointedly at Hagrid. _Oh, don't be stupid, Marcella, I'm betting Dumbledore told him everything, or close to everything. The trust goes both ways._

"Oh, no, I agree; it wouldn't, though it is the best piece," Petunia replied. She closed the box and slipped it into the shopping bag. "None of these things are. He must have brought something with him, I think. These things can go to Harry's vault at Gringotts, however."

Petunia could tell from Marcella's body language that she still suspected her of stalling. _Dead right, old girl; I am. I don't, don't, DON'T want to go up those stairs. _

She went up them anyway, quickly, so she wouldn't lose her nerve. There was a hall with a linen press at the top, plus four bedrooms, and in the manner of older homes, only one lavatory. Lily and James' bedroom had been at the front of the house, as had the guest bedroom, on the other side of the landing. Both were damaged, though not severely. The back of the upper story, however, was partially blown away, the two back rooms suffering the most. The one behind the guest bedroom had been apparently used for storage. The small one behind the master bedroom had been Harry's nursery.

The door to this room was missing. Petunia knew Lily had been killed here; Dumbledore's original letter told her that Harry had been discovered, wailing in his crib and bleeding from the scar on his forehead, while his mother lay lifeless on the floor beneath. Hagrid had discovered the bodies of both the adults, and the crying, still living child as well. The back wall had been missing at that time, too, but Dumbledore's prompt preservation spell had protected the remains of the room from the weather.

"What caused all this damage?" Petunia asked, in a thread-like voice.

"The implosion of the _Avada Kedavra_ spell, I should think," Marcella said in a level voice, though even she looked around uneasily.

"If there's anything at all, it should be here, then," Petunia said. She looked about her hopelessly. The room was a chaotic mess, one window missing, the other one glassless. The child's crib was still there, and under it they found something that Petunia recognized – a slender, delicate witch's wand – Lily's. It must have rolled there as she fell. Petunia found some cloth to wrap it in – one of the infant Harry's unused nappies, in fact - and stowed it in the bag with trembling fingers.

Dumbledore had been right, she decided; she didn't know how to conduct a search of this type, and so she asked Marcella to proceed with one, and stood back with Hagrid to admire the older woman's exemplary magical technique. Marcella's spells whirled through the room, bringing order to the chaos. They found nothing further in the nursery, however; or at least, nothing that looked like a horcrux nor a candidate for one.

In the master bedroom, they found a few other pieces of mostly everyday jewellery, which Petunia hadn't the heart to abandon, so she took them, too. They looked for James' wand for some time, but it was nowhere to be found. On the floor in the corner of the hall, though, they discovered a small enameled box that Petunia thought looked familiar – or was she imagining it? – but even _reserare_ wouldn't open it. She murmured _datglo _– Marcella looked even more startled – and to her surprise, it opened. It seemed empty. There was a small, beautifully painted shield on the inside lid.

"I'll take that," Marcella said, giving Petunia a narrow look.

Petunia nodded. She hadn't wanted to put the box with the rest of the items in the bag, but couldn't say why. She looked up the staircase again, and this time a sudden wave of nausea hit her. The shopping bag hit the floor, and Petunia followed it in short order.

Petunia was looking upward again. _I shouldn't do that, it makes me dizzy._

Then she realized that she was lying on the ground and looking up at the sky, and that Marcella and Hagrid were looking down at her – Marcella from a standing position; Hagrid kneeling beside her. And they were no longer in the house.

_Oh, thank God._

"What happened?" she muttered, levering herself up on her elbows.

"You passed out," Marcella said coldly, handing her a potion. _She came armed, it seems._

Petunia's hands trembled, so Hagrid held the bottle to her lips. _I appreciate it, Hagrid; not only that you're helping me, but that I' not alone with Marcella while I'm having the weakest moment I've had in years. She's not going to say whatever's biting her in front of you, which is all to the good._

The potion looked (and tasted) like cold dishwater with mint sauce, but that was nothing new. Petunia restrained an impulse to gag, and drank it down. It cleared her head almost immediately, but her stomach was still roiling. Hagrid helped her up, but she was unsteady on her feet, and he had to continue to support her. Observing this, Marcella shrugged, and said: "We'll go to lunch. I think we're finished here, in any case."

Petunia fought back her nausea long enough to observe carefully how Marcella replaced the preservation spell on the house. Then they walked to the pub, though Hagrid had to support her several times _en route_. Once there, Petunia could eat nothing, but did thankfully drink a cup of tea, and because Marcella insisted, some soup.

"What's the problem, Petunia?" Marcella asked her, rather sternly, after Hagrid had left the table at the end of the meal. Petunia shrugged; her stomach was still unsettled, and she wondered if she was going to disgrace herself by being sick.

"Are you pregnant?" Marcella asked her suddenly.

Petunia's eyes snapped open. "_What _did you say?" she cried.

"I asked you whether or not you're pregnant."

"I most certainly am not, and even if I were, why on earth is it _your _business?"

Marcella bridled. "Sirius Black was at the Manor at Christmas."

Petunia stared at her. "So were Mr. Crouch and Arbella Figg. Are you suggesting we had an orgy?" _Now there's a mental image I absolutely do not want to contemplate_. The notion was so thoroughly absurd that she was more amused than offended.

Marcella, for the first time since the days of Gilderoy Lockhart, looked defensive. "There've been rumours," she muttered. "You never even showed up at the Yule Ball."

Petunia recalled the excuse she had made to the faux Moody for that omission. Apparently, it had been too good to keep it to himself. She explained this to Marcella, who looked rather sceptical, but thankfully stopped the cross-examination. Petunia wondered rather dazedly what had just happened here. _Maybe wizards weren't stranger than witches._

After rather more than an hour at the pub, Hagrid asked Petunia delicately if she would like to visit Lily's grave before they left Godric's Hollow. A refusal leapt to her lips, but remained there unuttered. She hesitated, and then agreed. Marcella was most reluctant. "You obviously should go home, and go to bed," she said, perhaps trying to make up for her previous brusque manner.

Petunia thought longingly of her four-poster, but she was certain that she should know where her only sibling was buried, if only to be able to tell her nephew the location. To the graveyard therefore they went. It was located behind a small church in the centre of the village, and occupied a fairly large area. There was a memorial to James and Lily – it surprised Petunia how famous the first demise of Voldemort was – and their grave was there, too. _I didn't even bring any flowers, or even think about it_, Petunia thought wretchedly. She covered her confusion by writing the directions to the location of the grave down on a piece of paper, so she could find it again.

The graveyard included many other tombs, including one, surprisingly, for the Dumbledores. "Kendra," Petunia read out. "Different sort of name."

Marcella sniffed. "American," she said, as if that explained it all.

There was a sister listed, too, Adriana. "How young she was!" Petunia said. It was hard to imagine Dumbledore as young enough to have a mother or sister. He seemed to be perpetually elderly.

Marcella was restless, and seemed eager to leave; but Petunia sank down on a bench tomb to rest for a minute. She looked at one of the adjacent tombstones nearby, and then leaned forward to look closer. She reached out a hand to touch it. "Look, Marcella! Isn't this the same symbol as the one that was on the ring Dumbledore showed us?"

Marcella looked closer. "Yes, it is. She started to read it out loud: "'Ignotus Peverell.' I thought the Peverells were just a legend."

Petunia stared at her. "Peverell," she exclaimed. "The Three Brothers!"


	41. CHAPTER 41: THE POST-MODERN PROMETHEUS

Moi: Another shout-out to you in this chapter. As to whether Dumbledore was being an insensitive bastard or was rubbing Snape's nose in his guilt, I think it's neither. Dumbledore probably viewed it from a utilitarian viewpoint: whom does he trust? Who has the requisite magic? Who would do a good job of it? What Dumbledore doesn't consider is Snape's reaction to the task. He might if he had thought about it a bit, though. Though he considered Snape merely as a tool at the beginning, I'm pretty certain that he has considerable respect for his abilities now, and there's no evidence he actively wants to hurt him. After all, Dumbledore in his own youth had done exactly what Snape did; he made a profound, life-changing mistake, before he was old enough to have any wisdom, and because he was tempted by power.

Susan M. M.: The first spell is grey – official use only. The second one is dark.

Mabidiso: the unreliable narrator is always fun.

Vidicon: the intent of the spell is to preserve just the outer shell of the home.

Welcome to some new readers, and many thanks to the people who posted reviews. In next chapter, the reviewer who asked if Algy can read now has their question answered.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: THE POST-MODERN PROMETHEUS

_In which Petunia discovers that Algy has not only read "Frankenstein," he understood it, and is fired with the spirit of emulation._

The Second Task intervened before the next meeting of the Horcrux Hunters, and Petunia had to endure the determined efforts of Dudley and Harry to prevent her from attending it. They pointed out to her how nervous she was - they said - at the First Task, and that not eating nor sleeping for days effected her health. And so forth. The more they tried to talk her out of it, the more determined she was to be present, and in the end, they gave it up and delegated Pompey, Algy and Aberforth to accompany her. _Well, they said 'accompany'. What they meant was 'restrain.'_

This was a fortunate precaution, because without their presence Petunia might well have done something rash. Like throttle Albus Dumbledore. "Not in public!" Pompey told her severely, holding tightly onto one of her arms. "Is in private acceptable?" Petunia muttered, "Because if it is, he's a dead man."

"We are not necessarily disagreeing with you, Petunia," Aberforth told her. He was holding on to her other arm, and preventing her from carrying out an attack. "We're merely counselling discretion. You wouldn't like Azkaban, I'm pretty sure." That comment stopped Petunia's homicidal instincts dead in their tracks, but her tongue still worked, and she used it to denounce the Headmaster in no uncertain terms, not that he appeared to listen. _I should learn something by this, shouldn't I? I'm wasting my time telling him how damned reckless he is._

Harry had, with the considerable help from the Friends, deciphered the egg clue, at least to the point of discovering that it had to be opened under water. The Second Task was evidently to be situated under the Castle lake. Petunia knew that Harry could swim, after a fashion, for she had taught him how herself; but she also knew that neither he nor Dudley were particularly good at it. _Well, with me teaching it, I suppose that no other result was possible_. She worried considerably about the Task might go, though she was well aware that the real danger wasn't present until the end of the Tournament. One of the Friends had suggested the use of gillyweed, which was approved of by the group as the way Harry should approach the problem. Petunia devoutly hoped it was the right decision.

What Petunia hadn't counted on was Dudley's involvement in the whole thing. When she discovered that he, Hermoine Granger, Cho Chang, and Gabrielle Delacour had been recruited into the affair as bait for the competitors, she was beside herself. Dumbledore noted that he had asked permission first, though of the children, not of their parents. Petunia wondered what the Delacours, in particular, thought of that one, given that the child in question was only nine years old. _But then, they're wizards. They might not think anything about it at all._

First Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang surfaced; then Viktor Krum and Hermoine Granger; but no Harry and no Dudley. At this point, the Task seemed to go on forever, but in fact it lasted probably no more than just a few minutes. Finally, both boys surfaced with little Gabrielle Delacour in tow. Apparently Fleur Delacour had been waylaid by grindylows, and the boys had been unprepared to leave the child behind. Harry had been marked down for failing to leave with his 'hostage' in timely fashion, but the judges decided to give him second place anyway for refusing to abandon Gabrielle. Petunia, who cared not at all how he placed in this lunacy as long as he survived it, couldn't share his delight in this development. She was still too angry.

The next meeting of the Horcrux Hunters took place on the Sunday after. Petunia could barely bring herself to be civil to Dumbledore, who was, as usual, quite unmoved by her hostility; he was his customary gentlemanly self, and showed no signs of discomposure.

Not to Petunia's surprise, Dumbledore preferred to throw cold water on their discovery at the Godric's Hollow graveyard; the symbol on the gravestone, he said, was a common one; it was frequently seen in wizarding areas. Petunia had at last learned a little discretion with the Headmaster, and she didn't bother to argue with him, though she did notice that he neglected to say what in fact the symbol represented. She decided to simply wait until she could consult in private with Mr. Crouch.

On the other hand, the small enamel box, when Marcella produced it, did interest him; especially the painted shield on the inner lid. "I rather think," he said, "that the shield is the coat of arms of Voldemort's paternal family. It was originally designed to hold sweets or pastilles, from the look of it. This item was probably stolen by Voldemort on the night he murdered his father and his grandparents."

"Did he have a reason for the murders?" Petunia asked, after a shocked pause. "Or am I too optimistic?"

"I suppose that depends, Mrs. Dursley," Dumbledore said seriously. "though Voldemort's reasons probably seemed good enough to him. When he was an adolescent, he was certain that the wizarding side of his family was the paternal one; he despised his mother, who had died at his birth, as a weakling, or as he thought, a Muggle. It was a considerable shock to him to learn that the reverse was true, and in fact that his maternal family was a very old wizarding one, while his paternal relatives were Muggles. I'm not sure if the murders were revenge, experiments, or in fact, an attempt to hide his connection to the Riddles from his wizarding followers."

"Bit extreme," muttered Petunia. "And why steal? Polishing off a night of multiple murder with a little petty larceny? It seems so very...trivial."

"As you say," Dumbledore agreed grimly. "He always was a thief, even as a child. If he didn't pay for it, he valued a thing more. Of course, he did pay a price, nothing is ever without one."

Dumbledore then performed some spells on the box, by way of determining whether it was a horcrux or not. The results were negative: it wasn't, though there was evidence of spellwork. "He did the preliminary spell preparation," Dumbledore said, "which is why the box gives off a powerful sense of dark magic – " here Marcella shivered involuntarily – "but the process was never completed, and the piece of his soul is not there. It was intended as a receptacle, though."

"So there are only five horcruxes, then," Petunia said.

"Or six," Dumbledore said.

"No, Harry was going to be number six," Petunia said. "Neville Longbottom would have been number seven."

"What makes you think so, Mrs. Dursley?" Dumbledore asked. There was a tone of barely-restrained impatience in his voice.

"You knew him, or say you did," Petunia replied sharply. "Do you imagine that he would have gambled on one boy or the other? He wouldn't have, would he, not someone who enjoyed murder that much? He'd kill one first, then the other, to be absolutely sure. Since Harry was the half-blood, he came first. The death of Neville, the pureblood, would have had the honour of marking the seventh and last horcrux."

Dumbledore looked at her with some surprise and after a little hesitation, nodded. "There is much in what you say. Neville very probably survived because Voldemort did not get past Harry, or to be more specific, Harry's mother."

Petunia gave Snape a fleeting glance, but he did not look up, though his shoulders twitched.

"Five, then," Petunia said.

"So it would seem," Dumbledore said. Something in his voice made Petunia uneasy.

She then produced Lily's wand, and laid it on the table, rather reluctantly. Snape stared glumly at it; Dumbledore picked it up and examined it gently. "He did not touch it," he said at last, to Petunia's relief. She rolled it back into Harry's old nappy, and stowed it back in the bag. Snape, after his first glance, did not look at it again.

"We found jewellery and keepsakes in the house," Marcella said, "but they were hidden in the freezer. Petunia says that this was a habit of her mother's; evidently, Lily copied it. There was no sign that Voldemort had discovered any of it, though."

Dumbledore still demanded to see the items, so Petunia produced the cache that they had found in the icebox. After careful examination, he pronounced them also untouched. It was another dead end, in one sense, but as Minerva pointed out, it suggested that Voldemort had indeed intended to move on to another, seventh horcrux, with Neville, and not that he had thought to make two of them at Godric's Hollow.

The Horcrux Hunters then gave their reports. Dumbledore had good news on the Gringotts vaults: several prominent Death Eater families still had them, though the goblins had been extremely reluctant to disclose this. Dumbledore did not relate precisely how he had managed to obtain the information, and the group was discreet enough not to ask, though it appeared that he had pointed out to the goblins that Voldemort's theories included the primacy of wizards and the probable consequences therein. After a short period of reflection – two minutes at the outside, probably, in Petunia's estimation – the goblins got the point.

"I think we will start with the Lestrange vault," Dumbledore said. "Yes, they do still have one. The Malfoy one would be even more likely, but I'm quite sure Voldemort allocated not more than one horcrux to each follower, and their horcrux was the diary."

"Isn't Bellatrix a rather obvious choice?" Minerva asked.

"Yes, she is," said Dumbledore, "but she is also completely trustworthy in Voldemort's eyes, and he can hardly have that opinion of very many people. Narcissa Black is Bellatrix Lestrange's sister and power of attorney, and she maintains the vault and pays the fees, but I think that we won't request her co-operation; no point in making her refuse, is there? It would also tip off Voldemort that we are hunting for the horcruxes. The deal with the goblins is, by the way, that we can look, but not touch nor remove anything."

"And what sort of deal is that?" asked Petunia. "If we find a horcrux, we can't remove it?"

Dumbledore merely looked at her, and Petunia realized she was being naive. _Neither the goblins nor Dumbledore intend to keep that bargain. They'll just both pretend that they do, for the record.  
_

The rest of the Horcrux Hunters gave their reports, with varying results: both Minerva and Snape had discovered information on horcruxes during their researches, particularly on the various means of destroying them, most notably by fiendfyre and basilisk venom.

"A case of the cure being almost as bad as the disease," as Minerva put it.

Dumbledore agreed to take Moody and Petunia to see the Lestrange vault at Gringotts during the next week, and the meeting broke up. As she saw her guests to the door, Petunia saw Algy angling toward the French windows. "I'm going to visit Hagrid, Petunia," he said airily. _I just bet you are, Algy, and here's where I find out what's happening on that front. _ She cast an unobtrusive spell on him, and nodded absently as he left.

Petunia waited until Algy had been gone about half an hour and then she flew on her broom – unusual for her, she preferred to walk short distances ordinarily, for the exercise – after him. The use of the broom reflected her uncertainty as to how far he was actually going, and whether she would have to enter the Forbidden Forest after him or not, as she was certainly not walking there. The tracing spell she had placed on the little dragon led her to Hagrid's hut, however; he had not been lying about that. Petunia waited a little bit more outside the hut, sheltering behind some adjacent trees, trying to decide how to proceed, when the door flew open, and Algy and Hagrid came out, Algy flying, Hagrid lumbering along beside him.

"I dunno, Algy," Hagrid was saying, "if that's a very good idea -"

"Why not?" Algy said. "She's making such good progress, Hagrid, but she needs to be closer to me so that I can teach her things – how to read, for instance, and some foreign languages, perhaps -"

"Mrs. Dursley's liable to see her there," Hagrid interrupted. "In fact, she's bound to. And then the fat will hit the fire."

"Petunia never goes into the carriage house," Algy said confidently. "I heard her say it was used for horses, back in the day, and since we don't have any, there was no need to restore it immediately. In fact, she's wrong; it was used for breeding dragons, among other things. Wizards don't use horses much."

"She's just a baby," said Hagrid. "She'll be lonely there."

"She's lonely now, and the Forest is too dangerous for her to stay in very long while she's so young. Besides, she might set fire to it."

"There is tha'," Hagrid admitted.

Petunia clenched her teeth, and wondered if she should confront them, but she decided that she preferred to do that on her own ground. So she went back to the Manor, and waited for them at the carriage house. It was a two storey stone building, located quite close to the Manor, half hidden in a grove of fruit trees. The lower storey had what had appeared to Petunia to be accommodations for horses; the door to the upper storey was apparently blocked, since Petunia in her first, and only, tour of the premises had been unable to open it. She had not tried subsequently, since the house and gardens had so far consumed nearly all of her time and attention. _A mistake, obviously_.

She found a bench inside, and sat down – one of the stalls shielded her from the sight of anyone who came in the main door. And as she expected, within the hour, Algy and Hagrid entered, their arrival hidden from the windows of the main house by the evening dusk and the surrounding trees.

"I still think we should ask firs', Algy," Hagrid was saying. He was leading what looked like a horse, though because it was covered with a blanket, and standing in the shadows, it was difficult to tell.

"If we ask, she'll just say no," Algy said. _How very well he knows me_. "Better to present her with a _fait accompli_. Then she can't."

"I hope someone brought dinner," said a third voice, and Petunia jumped.

She looked around the edge of the stall, and saw Hagrid, who was looking harried; Algy, who was perched on the edge of a stall; and another, larger dragon, a blanket around its shoulders, who was sitting on the floor and looking hopefully at Hagrid.

"Now, don' you worry, lass, I've brought some food for you with me," Hagrid said to his charge, who raised her head, and bumped it delicately against him. He hurried to unwrap some meat, which the larger dragon ate with delicate precision. "Good girl," he said approvingly, patting her neck. The dragon gave him an 'of-course-I-am' look , and lay down on the stone floor. _That must be cold_, Petunia thought.

"She can't be alone here, Algy," Hagrid said. "You're going to have to spend the night and keep an eye on her."

"I suppose so," Algy sighed.

Petunia stepped out of the stall. "Hello, Hagrid," she said. "Nice to see you. Is there by any chance a good reason why you're trespassing on my property_?" I know the reason, but I might as well make you squirm a bit._ _I remember how kind you were to me at Godric's Hollow, Hagrid; so believe me, as a result, you're getting off easy._

Hagrid looked startled first and guilty second. "Algy invited me, Mrs. Dursley," was all he could manage.

If Petunia expected Algy to be discomposed, she was to be disappointed. He gave her a bland look. "Algy?" she said ominously.

"Yes, Petunia?" he answered, as if he didn't know why she was angry. Petunia was suddenly reminded of Sirius.

"Who is this?" she indicated the larger dragon, which was now sitting up, and inspecting her with mild interest.

"This is Nesta," Algy said, as if he were merely introducing them. "She's the daughter of Lowri; you remember Lowri, don't you? She was one of the dragons in the First Task, the Welsh Green."

"I remember her, yes," Petunia said. "Did you happen to steal an egg from her, Algy?"

"I didn't!" cried Algy. "Not steal! I would never do such a thing! Lowri _gave_ me the egg!"

"And why would she do that?" Petunia asked sternly.

"She could tell that the egg was going to be small," Algy said. "It was going to be _very_ small, in fact, and she was afraid that the dragon that hatched out of it would be bullied by the other dragons in the way she saw that I was. I convinced - I mean, I _told_ her that she could leave the egg here with me, and I would look after it – and I did! It was safe with me! And I made sure it was even smaller than it was going to be in the first place - " he broke off.

"And how did you do that?" Petunia asked.

Algy finally looked uneasy. He motioned with his chin toward the blocked door. "Upstairs is the laboratory that Cassius and the Agents used when I was first hatched. I used to watch them when they were dragon-breeding. I know the potions and spells they used. They produced a couple of other dragons like me for wizarding customers, and I saw how they did it."

Petunia looked at the other dragon. She was obviously a Welsh Green, and she was about the size of a thoroughbred horse. She was also beautiful; she sat back on her haunches and surveyed Petunia placidly with large golden eyes.

"Hello, Nesta," Petunia said awkwardly. The female dragon nodded to her graciously and delicately picked her teeth with one elegant claw. "I wasn't able to get her as small as I wanted," Algy said to Petunia _sotto voce_. "She was too close to hatching. I had to be sure she talked, because that was more important to me than her size. She won't get any bigger than she is now, though. I _think_."

"What did you mean about this place being used for dragon breeding?"

"Well, look about you," Algy said. "Do you see any wood?"

Indeed, there was none; everything in the place was stone or cement, including the floor and the furniture.

"Nothing flammable; that was deliberate," Algy said.

Petunia shook her head. "Algy, why on earth did you do this?" she asked him. "You _know_ it's forbidden!"

Algy hung his head. "Well, _yes_," he said in a small voice. "But there was one thing I really did like about Romania, other than the food, and that was having other dragons about, especially Welsh Greens. Why should we all be exiled from Britain? It's our home, too! It isn't fair!"

It never occurred to Petunia to question the exiling of dragons, but she supposed he had a point. "Algy," she said, as gently as she could, "don't you understand that if she's discovered, and she undoubtedly will be, I'll get the blame?"

"Oh, no!" Algry cried. "Don't worry you about that, Petunia, I'll tell them exactly what happened!"

Hagrid joined in to assure her that he would support Algy's story, but Petunia still didn't know exactly what to do about the whole situation. _I should send her packing to Romania as quickly as possible, and no error. But if not as small as Algy, she is still very small, and what would happen to her among all those big dragons, especially aggressive ones like the Hungarian Horntail? Lowri was right to be concerned about it._

Algy looked at her pleadingly. _I suppose he's afraid of being lonely, and I refused to give him a witch, didn't I? Yes, I did, but I certainly didn't expect this._

"Please, Petunia," Algy begged, "don't send Nesta away! She'll be good! And she won't get any bigger, I promise you." _He reminds me of Lily, pleading with my parents to keep yet another scruffy little stray kitten_, _when we were already well over our limit._

Petunia looked around. "Alright," she said, with resignation, and a clear feeling that she was behaving like a lunatic, "but you must help me get this place into shape for her, both of you. And if she _does_ grow any more, Algy, I'll really have no choice. I'm stretching the rules as it is in keeping _you_, let alone an even bigger dragon."

"She won't!" Algy cried. "I promise!" Nesta merely smiled.


	42. Chapter 42: DIRTY WORK AT THE CROSSROADS

To the eight people who reviewed the last chapter last week, thank you. Lowest review total since Chapter Eighteen, however. I realize the story is getting very (too) long. But I am writing it on the fly mainly because if I stop the discipline of the weekly rotation, I fear I'll never finish it. (My last three stories were never finished). I thus have limited ability to restrain the length – everything seems to take twice as long as I anticipated; so please have patience.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: DIRTY WORK AT THE CROSSROADS

_In which 'X' marks despot_.

Petunia took the opportunity to give the Moonfleet broom and James Potter's invisibility cloak back to Harry a few days after the Second Task.

"You may need them," she said briefly. She also gave him a leather pouch and belt that she had Scipio make for the cloak. "Wear it under your robes at all times, Harry," she told him. "Forearmed _and _ forewarned. And I never, ever want to see you without your wand. Hagrid tells me that when Voldemort surprised your parents in Godric's Hollow, your father didn't have his wand with him, and had to face him unarmed. You know how _that_ turned out. The belt is designed so that you can also hook your wand to it."

Harry looked rather surprised, but he accepted both. "If they give you a hard time about the Moonfleet at school, let me know," Petunia said, as she was prepared to fight any official attempts to deprive him of it. Harry nodded. She then turned to Dudley, to whom she gave a similar belt and warning: never unarmed. To his belt, he could hook his wand, and there was a place for a shiv, a Swiss army knife, and a skeleton key, among other things. "For the times you can't use magic, and there will be times, though I want your word that you won't use these things for anything but self-defense."

She saw the boys exchange glances. _They think I'm a complete paranoid. They're not wrong; but it doesn't mean someone isn't out to get them_. But they did promise, to her relief. She then gave them a book called "Self-Defense For Dummies" and extracted a promise that they would practice a technique as outlined in it per week. She could see that they thought it was a joke. "Well, that's a flattering gift, Mum!" said Dudley wryly.

"The title is not the point," she said severely. "I'll being expecting you to show me what you've learned every Sunday. And you'll practice it until I'm satisfied." The boys gave each other signifigant looks.

"Poor Tante," she heard Harry mutter to Dudley, as the boys were on their way out of the room, "I think she's finally flipped!"

_You may be right, Harry; you may be right. But the real problem is that I'm just plain terrified__**.**_

In the hall, she ran into Mr. Crouch, who had, as he said, been looking for her. "Madame," he said, with gritty dignity, "I have something to discuss with you. You must understand that when I came to your establishment, it was for a rest – peace and quiet."

"Yes?" Petunia said, wondering what was next.

"I was translating the diary in the library, quietly, when I became aware that there was a dragon sitting beside me – a rather large dragon, I might add, which I had never seen before. It put its chin on my shoulder."

"That must have been a shock to you," Petunia agreed, wondering what Nesta was doing up at the Manor. Supposedly, she was hiding out in the carriage house. _Do I smell Algy? I certainly do. Fire and brimstone like perfume in the air._

"It was, indeed," said Mr. Crouch primly. "The dragon then demanded that I teach it to read." _Oh. Looking for tutors – that's what she was doing. Yes, Algy's definitely behind this request. I suppose teaching a hatchling dragon to read is a harder task than he anticipated._

"How very rude of it – her, actually."

"Well, as to that, I don't actually object to teaching her to read," Mr. Crouch said. "It's just that I was very...surprised."

"I don't doubt it," said Petunia, as straight-faced as she could manage. "I do apologize for Nesta, Mr. Crouch, but I will say that she's very young; a hatchling, to be precise. If you will forgive her, I'd be willing to pay to have you tutor her."

Mr. Crouch looked taken aback, and spots of pink appeared on his cheekbones. "Not at all, Madame. I didn't raise this point with you to ask you for _money_." He obviously felt the notion was vulgar. "I just felt I should have been _warned_."

Petunia set about soothing his wounded feelings. She realized that it was not Nesta's sudden appearance, but being left out of the information loop that agitated him. This feeling Petunia could certainly appreciate. She explained her own exclusion from that element in Nesta's case, and was pleased to note that he visibly calmed down.

She then produced the tracing of the symbol she had made in Godric's Hollow. Mr. Crouch peered at the symbol and then looked up at her, and she had a sudden impression of how startled he was. "How old was this tombstone?" he asked her. She told him. He traced the symbol with the tip of one thin finger. "The Deadly Hallows," he said. "The name on the tombstone, did you note what it was?"

"Ignotus Peverell," Petunia said. "Though I couldn't say if anybody was actually buried there or not."

Mr. Crouch said nothing, but Petunia sensed his uneasiness.

"What does the symbol stand for?" Petunia asked.

"The circle represents the Stone of Resurrection; the line is the Elder Wand; and the triangle is the Cloak of Invisibility. But the symbol is famous because Gellert Grindelwald appropriated it for his crusade against Muggles in Europe. It used to be a harmless symbol of good luck among wizards, but through him it became feared and hated throughout an entire continent."

"I thought that the Hallows were just a story – a legend."

"Most wizards do," Mr. Crouch said. "But I know for a fact that Grindelwald had possession of at least one of them - the Elder Wand. He wanted to reunite it with the other two Hallows, because whomever has all three is the Master of Death."

"What is it about wizards and death?" muttered Petunia. "That's just plain absurd. And the story makes it clear – those who try to outwit death are fools, are they not?"

"They are, Madame," Mr. Crouch said, giving her a melancholy look, "they are indeed."

Petunia thought of Voldemort, and his dreadful half-life; and she shivered. As Mr. Crouch seemed equally despondent, she decided to change the subject and asked him if he had made any more progress with the Agents' diary. He brightened, for he genuinely enjoyed showing off his prowess in that area. Petunia certainly didn't mind this; given the amount of work it put him to, she felt he was entitled to a little boasting. Or a lot of it.

He handed her the transcripts of some new pages, and she started to read.

CA: X is a hero to everyone in Slytherin.

CI: Except us.

CA: Except us, yeah. CR told me he's been spreading rumours about us. We have a Squib brother, he says. Our mother's a Gryff; our father's a Puff. We're Muggle-lovers. Our family are obviously blood-traitors. And so forth.

CI: Love thy brother as thyself.

CA: Speak for yourself, knobhead.

CI: I didn't say _which_ brother, did I?

CA: What do you suppose he expects us to do? Burn poor little Tully at the stake? Whatever Mother thinks, I'm not into fratricide. Not this season, anyway.

CI: There are times when I'm tempted, though.

CA: True enough. And there are days when I'd throw you in for free, and Cressy, too, for a truppence ha'penny.

CI: Right back at you, _frater_.

CA: It always pays to fight among ourselves instead of fighting him.

CI: Why fight him at all? Let's avoid him.

CA: I don't think he's going to allow us to opt out of whatever he's planning. Remember what happened to MM and WD? WD was not so long ago, either. Despite the 'poor me' line that X peddles, the fact is that bloke's a King Cobra.

CI: Which means?

CA: Which means, if we opt out, he's going to make our lives miserable.

CI: So what then would be different?

CA: Shut the hell up, Cicero.

"They don't seem to get on very well," Mr. Crouch said.

Petunia gave him astonished look, but then remembered that he only had the one son, and a crazy one at that. "Boys will talk like that to each other," she said. "At least mine do. They snipe at each other constantly, but they'll present a united front to any external criticism, believe me; from me or anyone else. If you attack one, the other will immediately jump in to defend him. _Because attacking him is his job._ It seems to me, though, that they are very anxious about something that's going on in the school."

"They seem quite indifferent to me," Mr. Crouch said, and Petunia noted that he quite obviously didn't understand what she meant. Despite his undoubted brilliance and his skill in translation and deciphering, he was not very adept in his interpretation of people; perhaps that was why, with all his numerous gifts, he had ended up as a boarder in her guest suite.

She went back to her reading.

CA: X is spending a lot of time with the ghosts, too. Or at least, the Bloody Baron and the Grey Lady. Don't you think that's rather odd?

CI: Spending any time at all with the Bloody Baron is damned insane, if you ask me. And I thought that the Grey Lady didn't talk.

CA: She talks to Ravenclaws, or so I'm told. And apparently, to the Baron.

CI: X isn't a Ravenclaw. Nor is the Baron.

CA: He'd be a Puff if it got him something he wanted. X, I mean, not the Baron.

CI: True. What do you think he's after?

CA: Maybe we should talk to the Baron, and just ask him.

CI: He won't talk to us, will he?

CA: He definitely won't if we don't try. We're Slytherins, why wouldn't he?

The next entry read:

CA: Well, that was illuminating.

CI: Suprise, suprise!

CA: Never knew the Grey Lady was related to Rowena, did you? You learn new things all the time.

CI: At least we now know what X is up to. Sort of.

CA: Why do you suppose he wants the diadem?

CI: To sell it, I imagine. After all, he's penniless, or so he keeps saying. And he's too damn arrogant to think he needs it to make him intelligent.

CA: If his lips are moving, he's lying.

CI: True. If we want to find out what's really going on, we need a way to watch him.

CA: I agree...so what about using Ean, then?

CI: Yes, that should work.

In other entries, Petunia had gathered than Ean was Cato's familiar, a pet raven. She went on to the next entry:

CA: God, women are stupid.

CI: Or X is not.

CA: Or both.

CI: I can't believe she'd tell him where it is.

CA: She did. He's really smooth, though.

CI: Now we know why she stole it from her mother in the first place.

CA: She's dim?

CI: Let us just say, she really, really needed that diadem.

CA: Ean says X is spending all of his free time in the Forbidden Forest. Doing what?

CI: Something bad, or he wouldn't need to hide it.

CA: I agree. Ean says there's a stone cottage deep in the Forest on the intersection of the path running north-south, and the path running east-west. A hermit used to live there at one time. No more, I gather. I've heard of the place, but never seen it – it's at the very centre of the Forest, and not for the faint of heart. In any case, our dear friend X has appropriated it.

CI: The intersection or the cottage?

CA: The cottage, idiot. Though the intersection is included, I suppose.

CI: I know what's coming. You want to go there and search the cottage.

CA: Yes, I do.

CI: The Forbidden Forest is so-called for a reason, you know.

CA: I'm not afraid of centaurs or unicorns.

CI: What about giants or trolls? Or werewolves?

CA: The hermit died of old age.

CI: Supposedly, he did. If we keep this up, we won't.

CA: Ean says we'd have to fly, walking it in a short time is impossible. Makes sense to me. He flew.

CI: Ean's a raven. He's small and he's hard to see. We won't be.

CA: Not if we do it the right way.

Petunia felt a sudden surge of empathy for the unfortunate Octavia Mayhew. Cicero seemed to have a little common sense, but Cato had none, and he was obviously the dominant twin. The entry continued:

CI: Did you notice something odd about the Grey Lady?

CA: She's upset, yeah.

CI: With X. Shouldn't we see what she has to say about him?

CA: If she'll talk to him, why not us?

CI: Because talking to him turned out badly?

CA: The Baron talked; he needed to tell someone perhaps. I think she'll feel the same.

The next entry read:

CA: Horcruxes. The bloke's mad.

CI: Looney tunes.

CA: The Grey Lady's angry. She's also a mine of information.

CI: Those books she pointed out to us are disgusting, though. I don't want to read another, thanks. I'm generally fond of my lunch and I don't want to lose it.

CA: More important: what are we going to do?

CI: Tell an adult?

CA: Mother would say we're (1) lying; (2) exaggerating; (3) imagining things. Choose one. Father would say: 'If I do this experiment a different way, I can unblock Tully's magic, and please don't bother me right now, I'm busy.'

CI: Dippet?

CA: X is his white-haired boy.

CI: Dumbledore doesn't like him, though, I notice.

CA: Dumbledore hasn't done a damned thing about it, either; that I also notice.

CI: Good point.

The next entry was several days later.

CA: Well, it's not a horcrux.

CI: Not yet.

CA: As you say.

CI: Should we give the diadem back to the Grey Lady, then?

CA: No. We'll wait for him to make it into a horcrux.

CI: You're crazy.

CA: So we can destroy it. We now know where he'll hide it.

CI: I can't believe that X actually marked the spot with a X, though. What a cliché.

CA: Even criminal lunatics require aide-mémoires, it seems.

The transcription ended there. Mr. Crouch told her that several pages were torn out of the diary at this point, and Petunia restrained the urge to kick the wall and start screaming. She begged him to continue with the translation as soon as possible, and he agreed. "In the meantime, no dragon tutoring," Petunia said, "or at least until the translation is finished; it's much more important!"

This involved telling Algy that if he wanted Nesta to learn to read, he'd have to teach her himself. As Petunia expected, he took it badly. "I tried, but she's quite difficult to teach," he complained. "Perhaps she's not very smart."

It was Petunia's considered opinion that there was nothing at all wrong with Nesta's intelligence, but that in constrast to Algy, she was a bit on the idolent side. Also unlike Algy, she was proving quite skilled at getting her own way; her langourous charm worked wonders. Though she was supposed to stay in the carriage house, she almost immediately moved into the Manor, and stayed there, despite her size. Petunia expected the house elves, who to a man hated Algy, to rebel; but they did not. In fact, they worked hard to facilitate it. Nesta would blink her large golden eyes, and make a languid comment in her contralto voice, and get her way. Harry compared her personality to cream just on the boil, while Algy was peppery; it was as good an explanation as any. To Petunia's frustration, the bigger dragon commandeered a large leather couch from the library, and had the house elves move it to the master bedroom, where she slept on it every night. Petunia never intended to start a dragon haven, especially in her own bedroom, but then she hadn't intended to run a guest house, either. She appeared to be stuck with both at the moment.

Upon learning that Petunia was going to Gringotts with Dumbledore and Moody the next day, Algy informed her that he thought that he and Nesta should go along. "I don't think so, Algy," Petunia said. "The Headmaster won't agree to that, or I miss my guess."

"It would be better if we did," Algy said, serious for once. "Otherwise you may have trouble getting into the vaults, even if the goblins say they will open the doors. If that's what you are going there for, and I rather think it is. "

"What sort of trouble do you mean?" Petunia asked.

"Dragon trouble," said Algy. "The goblins use dragons to guard the vaults. Big ones. And if you can't get by them, _they_ don't care. I think that's why they told Dumbledore he could go in. They don't expect him to get very hard."

And so it was that when Dumbledore and Moody called for Petunia early the next morning, she had both Algy and Nesta waiting with her, ready to go.


	43. Chapter 43: DRAGONS IN DUNGEONS

Susan M. M. Well, I needed _that_ attitude adjustment – sigh. It's absolutely true – I'm whining. (OTOH: throw me a bone occasionally, and I'll stop.) The swastika comparison you commented on is deliberate, yes. There is a place in Northern Ontario _called_ Swastika; it was named in 1907, after a gold mine, itself named after the good luck symbol on a visitor's charm bracelet. During WWII the Canadian government decided the name should be changed to the more patriotic 'Winston.' The town had nothing against Churchill, but they were not having any. The 'Winston' signs erected by the Ontario Department of Highways were torn down each night, and the 'Swastika' signs put back up, along with another sign underneath saying: "To Hell with Hitler, we had the swastika first!" (It's still called by the name, despite a couple of subsequent attempts at changing it; a rare defeat for political correctness.)

I was very pleased to note that the voting of all of you was heavily for more, not less. Thank you, especially as I just don't think I can speed it up. Haven't managed it so far, in any case. The reviews were very much appreciated - all 24 of them (!)

Mabidiso: You said: 'sometimes Petunia's perception of characters' reactions to her is so utterly perplexing.' True, because she's straining her perceptions through her own experiences and insecurities (a lot of the latter), and also because wizarding culture still frequently flummoxes her.

LoireLoa: You're right. Petunia's pretty good at setting boundaries for the boys, not so much for other people.

Moi, very glad to see you back. As usual, several interesting comments and suggestions (I get more interesting plotting ideas from your reviews than anywhere else, I think.) This goes for all of you: I might not use your suggestions, but they often get me thinking in interesting directions, so feel free.

I can't believe thsy none of you caught the dreadful clanger of a Freudian slip in the last chapter, the product of late-night revisions...!

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE: DRAGONS IN DUNGEONS

_In which goblin culture displays its not-so-attractive underbelly – literally._

As Petunia expected, when he saw them, Dumbledore was at first surprised. "You appear to have acquired another dragon, Mrs. Dursley," said he.

"Not I," said Petunia. "Algy was given her egg, because her mother – who was one of the dragons you brought over for the Tournament - preferred her to live here."

"No dragons live in Britain anymore – it was agreed that they would all go to the dragon reserve in Romania," Moody said. "In fact, both your dragons should be there now."

"If it was agreed by the dragons, fine," said Petunia, instantly showing fight, "but I suspect it wasn't. And Algy _was _there, in fact; they sent him back." _So there_.

"True enough, the dragons didn't agree," Dumbledore said. "But dragons aren't sentient."

"I think we've just been insulted," Algy said to Nesta in an aside.

"Who's the boring old man?" Nesta asked, returning the favour.

"Nesta!" Petunia exclaimed, in spite of herself. "Manners!"

Nesta looked rather taken aback for a moment; then she loped forward and placed her head on Dumbledore's shoulder, so that her eyes were on level with his. _Her favourite trick_. She blinked several times, and fluttered her lashes.

"Forgive me, sir," she said in her contralto_ tessitura_ voice.

"Mrs. Dursley could have just as easily admonished me for _my_ manners," Dumbledore said, not at all proof against her formidable charm. "I appreciate that she spared my blushes in this case. I do beg your pardon, Nesta." Despite the humourous inflection he gave it, the apology sounded sincere, and even Nesta was appeased.

"Pleased to meet you, then," she said, eyes wide, giving the Headmaster the full force of what the boys privately described as her 'pheromone attack.' He appeared slightly dazed, and Moody, who had been just on the edge of the full blast, looked like he was trying hard not to laugh.

The retired Auror then asked Petunia bluntly why the dragons were, as he put it, 'necessary.'

"Algy tells me that the oldest and deepest vaults in Gringotts are guarded by dragons," Petunia said. "The goblins apparently consented to us looking at the Lestrange vault because they have no expectation of us ever managing to get into it."

"That sounds entirely possible," Moody said dourly, glancing at Dumbledore. "So tell us, then: how will bringing these two along help that?"

"Algy can talk to other dragons," Petunia pointed out.

This point conceded, they apparated to a quiet spot in Knockturn Alley. Petunia had been prepared to have difficulties apparating with dragon or two, but Dumbledore's magic, it appeared, was equal to occasion. She watched closely how he did it, for future reference. Both Algy and Nesta looked rather sick afterward, however; and Nesta gave her new friend a reproachful glance. Dumbledore apologized to her once again, and once again, she was as gracious as only she could be (which was gracious indeed), in response.

It was just after dawn – Petunia had asked for a very early appointment, though she hadn't told Dumbledore exactly why ahead of time. She felt it would avoid too much notice of Algy and Nesta being made by passers-by in Diagon Alley, though even as it was, they received several astonished stares. As the party approached the great bronze doors of Gringotts Bank, these opened a crack, and then several goblins filed out to greet them.

"Headmaster Dumbledore?" one of these said, bowing politely. "My name is Otrygg. Please follow me." Then he took in the rest of the party: Moody scowling, Petunia anxious, Algy (who was sitting on her shoulder) curious, and Nesta (who was standing by her side) boundlessly self-confident.

"That's a dragon!" he said suddenly. _I have a feeling that goblins don't often deviate from their pre-arranged plans. This particular one had better be the flexible type._

"_Two_ dragons," Algy corrected him.

"They're with us," Petunia said firmly. The goblins, as it turned out, had every objection to them taking Algy and Nesta down to the vaults, or indeed into the Bank at all. Petunia noted with interest that Dumbledore could be quite intimidating when he wanted to be, and on this occasion, he wanted to be. _I think he's a bit angry with goblins about their double-dealing, and quite right, too. Not that he isn't capable of it himself when necessary, but it is fairly insulting to so powerful a wizard._

Otrygg spluttered a bit, made a threat or two, and when neither dodge looking like working, called upon reinforcements to deal with the matter. He summoned a senior goblin, or at least the most senior goblin awake at that hour of the morning and already in his office at the Bank. This particular goblin rejoiced in the thoroughly prophetic name of Arngrim. He was even grimmer when the audience was over, and he and Otrygg were escorting the party to the vaults, dragons and all. Petunia suspected that he was even more surprised than she was by this turn of events.

Algy rode with them in the cart as he was, in Petunia's opinion, too small to fly behind it, as Nesta did. He clung desperately to her shoulder during some of the scarier hairpin turns. Petunia was glad; the pain distracted her from the sheer terror of the ride. _Gryffindor, indeed. The Sorting Hat was obviously having an off day when it sorted me._

The ride seemed to last forever, though by Petunia's Muggle watch, it was about twenty minutes. Finally, they arrived at what appeared to be the end of the line – at least, _this_ line – and were decanted from the cart with scant ceremony. They found themselves in a large cavern with a line of vaults across one wall. It was then that Petunia saw the dragon; Algy had been accurate, though she had to wonder where he had gotten the information. In the clearing in front the vaults was a dragon, very large, very grey, and tethered with large, painful-looking iron cuffs and chains. It was bigger than even the Hungarian Horntail, though its eyes looked cloudy, and the scales on its underbelly crumbly.

"It's a Ukrainian Ironbelly," Algy said to her quietly. "The very biggest dragon of all."

Petunia had no trouble at all believing it. The Horntail was a battleship in comparison to the Ironbelly's Dreadnought. Except that this one wasn't a Dreadnought, not in this instance. _Reduced to guarding bank vaults; that's a come-down for such a proud creature, indeed. The blind Samson chained to the Temple. If the Goblins knew their Bible, they might be afraid of the next scene in this story._

"Can you talk to him if he's not a Welsh Green?" Petunia asked Algy.

"I'll try," Algy said, and burst into a series of staccato vocalizations. The huge dragon merely stared at him.

And Nesta, too, was staring - at the Ironbelly. "Look at his scars!" she cried. She was right; the dragon's hide was scored with what looked like old wounds made by swords. The dragon's head turned toward her, attracted perhaps by her lilting voice. She spoke to it; to Petunia's astonishment, it responded. Its voice filled the cavern, and echoed from its walls.

"What is it saying?" Petunia whispered.

Nesta looked at her, horrified. "He's saying: 'Help me!'"

"He's partially blind," Otrygg said, which was as close as goblins got to an excuse. _I knew that, didn't I?_

"Why is he chained?" Nesta cried shrilly. _Three guesses, Nesta; he doesn't want to be here. I vote with him on that point._

"He is the guardian of these vaults," Arngrim said impatiently. He produced a cloth bag filled with clanking metal and began to shake it. The big dragon's head came down, and he backed away from the vaults, making a peculiar sound, almost like a whine, which echoed horribly, along with the clanking, in the small space.

Nesta burst into speech, and though Petunia could make nothing of it, the big dragon calmed down, and stopped the dreadful whining. He responded at some length to Nesta. She trotted over to him, and patted one enormous claw with her small one. The big dragon sniffed her inquisitively. Algy flew over, and perched on the other of the Ironbelly's giant winged claws, and was himself subjected to another giant sniff. It nearly knocked Algy off his perch, but he clung to it tenaciously. He seemed to have mastered his initial speech difficulty with the Ironbelly, probably with the assistance of Nesta, and he joined in the conversation, which quickly became animated.

Otrygg cried impatiently: "You can't tarry here forever! Leave him alone!"

Nesta and Algy swivelled their heads in unison with the Ironbelly and the three of them gave Otrygg a baleful look in triplicate. The two smaller dragons, by way of commenting on the interruption, lit up the cavern with some dragon fire, aimed at its roof. The goblin fell back a step. Petunia said placatingly, "We did come here to see the vault, Nesta."

"You don't have to even look in the vault, if you give me a description of what you want there," Nesta said. "He says that he knows everything that's gone in and out of each of these vaults for years. He can tell you if it's still there."

Both Arngrim and Otrygg looked rather startled by this, but Petunia patiently described to Nesta what they were looking for. Nesta translated for the benefit of the Ironbelly, and he gave her a rumbling reply.

"Yes, it's here," Nesta said. "He can remember precisely when it was placed in the vault, and he is certain it was never removed. He can smell these items, you see, so even if the people who go inside the vaults hide them in their clothing when they come out, he would know. He always knows. He recommends that you not go into the vault itself, though, there's a warning spell on it."

Arngrim and Otrygg looked even more startled than they had before, if possible, and then they both looked rather thoughtful, exchanging glances.

"The owners of the vault are in Azkaban," Moody pointed out. "A warning spell won't do either of them much good."

"The vault's been visited since the spell was cast," Nesta said, translating the loud rumbling speech of the captive Ironbelly. "The female owner's sister comes here occasionally. But it was not she who cast the spell. Nor was it either of the owners, though the female one was present at the time it was done. So the warning spell would probably bring a reaction from the person who actually cast it. He warns against entering unless you don't care about that."

"Did he see who cast it?" Moody asked.

"He does not know the caster's name, he says," Nesta supplied. "Tall, pale wizard. Nasty and cruel, Volodya says – he could sense it. Laughed at him and his incarceration here. He spoke to a snake he had with him. He thought Volodya – that's the Ironbelly's name, by the way – couldn't speak Parseltongue, and he can't, but he does understand it a bit, and he knew what they were saying. This was some years ago."

"Well, three guesses who _that _was," said Petunia. "Please thank him for the information, Nesta, and for the warning as well."

Nesta, Algy and Volodya continued their conversation, the latter showing increasing animation. Petunia supposed that the unfortunate Ironbelly must be both lonely and depressed in this dreadful place, and did not interrupt them.

She said to Dumbledore and Moody, "I think we can conclude that it's here. If we go in, however, he'll know what we're up to, which is obviously undesirable."

Petunia could tell that both men agreed with her: disturbing the vault was a bad idea. But as they prepared to leave, she could see that the dragonklatsch was still going strong, and the gobins were regarding it with something like wonder. Indeed, neither Nesta nor Algy wanted to leave, though the unfortunate Volodya did. He began to strain fiercely against his shackles, trying to follow them. The goblins started clanking the metal objects again, and the dragon repeated his earlier actions; he backed away, whining. Petunia realized that he had been conditioned to relate the sound with pain. Both the smaller dragons understood the ramifications of the sounds, too. "They torture him!" Nesta cried.

Arngrim looked at her. "He has a duty to guard the vaults, and this is the only way we can get him to do it," he said.

"Try asking politely," Petunia said, glaring at him.

"The Bank paid good money for him," Arngrim retorted.

"Not_ to_ him, I'll wager," Algy said, and he was right; the payment had been made to the Ukrainian wizarding government. The goblins had then promptly stunned their purchase, and presently he had awoken not in the sunny wide open spaces of the Ukraine, but in his current predicament. "He didn't even know where he was!" Nesta said. "We had to tell him! And these awful goblins are keeping him here against his will!"

Volodya interrupted this with a loud rumble, and the dragonklatsch resumed. Arngrim and Otrygg watched it for awhile and then inched over to Petunia and asked her, in low voices, who owned Algy and Nesta.

"Nobody does," she said shortly. "They live with me."

"It occurs to us," Arngrim said, "that perhaps we haven't gotten the most out of this dragon." He gave a wave of the hand, which indicated the Ironbelly. "We had no idea that he knew as much as he does about the comings and goings in these vaults, nor understood them as well as he appears to. If we could communicate with him better – "

"Forget it," Petunia said curtly. "I am not leaving them here so you can torture them, too."

Arngrim bristled; Otrygg elbowed him and said coldly: "Name your price."

_It all comes down to gold with goblins._ "I'm not a government," Petunia muttered. "They are not mine to sell."

Arngrim's eyes glittered. "As to that," he said, "they shouldn't be in this country at all, should they? Supposed we told the Ministry? They would be sent immediately to Romania, would they not? But if you give us the larger one, we will allow you to keep the small one, and tell no one about it."

"How very kind of you!" purred Petunia. "And how many dragons do _you_ have here?"

The two goblins looked discomfited. "Just the one," Arngrim said.

"Nesta!" called Petunia. "Ask Volodya how many dragons there are in these vaults!"

Nesta broke into voluble speech; after a minute or so, she reported: "At least five that he knows of, including him; he hears them through the tunnels at times, and sometimes they can talk to each other on quiet days. There may be more; there are some vaults on the other side, and the entrance to them is at the west end of the Bank."

"I rather think," Dumbledore interjected, "that that's about four more than you have a licence for, if indeed there are only five, and if indeed you do _have_ a licence." He and Moody had come up to join in the conversation, for which Petunia was grateful. She was finding the goblins increasingly creepy. They regarded the wizarding party malevolently.

"The female," Arngrim said. "How much?"

"Or the caster of that spell will know of your interest in this vault," said Otrygg.

"Are you saying that you would breach the confidentiality on which this Bank is founded?" Dumbledore asked them.

They hesitated. "No," Arngrim said eventually, but Petunia didn't trust them. After all, their confidentiality obligation was to the Lestranges, not anyone else. On the other hand, she might be able to use information garnered here, so she said: "If you need to ask one of your dragons a particular question, I will bring Nesta or Algy here to talk to them."

Petunia could see that the goblins did not like this idea, so she sweetened it a bit: "That's just until we can breed you a talking dragon of your own."

The goblins' eyes glinted at this. _Finally,_ _I've named my price – now they can start negotiating_.

Dumbledore and Moody stared at her, but did not interrupt.

"How much?" Arngrim repeated.

Petunia named the most eye-popping sum she could think of, which the goblins promptly refused to pay. She had expected nothing more, and so was not disappointed. _As long as they think they may get a dragon from me, either Nesta or one of their own, they are going to be discreet, and that's all I want_. _For now, that is_. "Fine, then," she said. "Make me an offer."

The goblins named a piddling sum, which Petunia declined just as promptly. _If I had accepted it, they'd know something is wrong. _"Well, think about it," she told them. "I'm open to a _reasonable _offer." She reluctantly summoned Algy and Nesta, fearing a giant scene of draconian proportions was about to take place. She was right. Their leave-taking of Volodya was enough to melt the heart of an iceberg, though Petunia noticed that the goblins were unmoved. Algy yelped, Nesta wailed, and Volodya roared and shrieked. The noise was deafening.

The trip back to the surface was accompanied by Nesta's sobs as she flew upwards. Algy seemed unusually subdued as he clung to Petunia's shoulder; and he allowed her to pet him, always a sign of trouble in store. At the surface, the dragons charged to the entrance, glaring indiscriminately at the goblins at the lines of desks and the clients of the Bank. Dumbledore prudently apparated the party back to the Manor as soon as possible, leaving Arngrim and Otrygg scowling on Gringotts' marble steps.

Petunia could see that both dragons were bitterly upset. "We are not leaving Volodya there!" Nesta cried, rounding on her.

"We just did, Nesta," Petunia pointed out.

Nesta was fast working herself into hysterics; luckily Algy took charge. "Get control of yourself!" he hissed at her. "You're just proving the point of wizards who claim dragons have no restraint!"

She stared at him, sides heaving, and then subsided. Petunia went over to her and put her arm around her shoulders. Nesta tried to pull away, but Petunia managed to give her a clumsy hug. "We've done a lot today, Nesta," she said quietly. "And you were a tremendous help. Right now, because we may well need Volodya's assistance later on, we had to leave him there. But I promise you, and you too, Algy, we'll do everything we can to free him eventually."

The two wizards seemed surprised by this avowal, as well they might. "I take it your offer to the goblins wasn't serious?" Moody asked.

Petunia sighed. "Of course not. I just want them onside, at least for awhile. In the meantime, gentlemen, that's horcrux number two. That leaves three others. Any leads there?"

Dumbledore said he was searching for the locket and the ring, and he believed places that Voldemort knew well were the most likely hiding spots.

"The orphanage he used to live in?" Petunia asked.

"I don't think so," Dumbledore said. "A Muggle building is too risky. It could be torn down, for one thing. But I have a lead on another possibility."

Well, Petunia did, too, but she did not mention it to Dumbledore. She was not sure why not. _Oh, hell, why be coy? I do know why not. I can just see the patronizing expression that will come over his face when I tell him. He can't help it; and neither can I. I want to be sure it's actually there before I say a word._

There was something else Petunia was curious about. She turned to the smaller dragon, who was murmuring in a low voice to the still distraught Nesta, and said: "Algy? How did you know there were dragons in the Gringott vaults?"

Algy stared at her, and fidgeted a bit. "Well, actually," he said, "Aneurin told me."

"Aneurin?" Petunia asked. "Who is that?" _Oh, do I really want to know the answer to this question?_

"Aneurin's one of the other dragon familiars that were bred by the Mayhews," said Algy. "He's living in Wiltshire right at the moment."


	44. Chapter 44: THE TROUBLE WITH HARRY

HOlicist: You're right.

Vidicon: Aneurin is a Welsh name, as in 'Aneurin Bevan.' And the dragon in question is a Welsh Green.

Moi: No, haven't read "Hell Followed." Great title, though. As for Aberforth and the goats, Dumbledore describes it as 'practicing inappropriate charms on a goat.' Perhaps I have a dirty mind, but I always assumed that was a smutty joke. It's hard to say whether Dumbledore is serious, but I wouldn't bet on it. The brothers have sort of an armed truce, which doesn't prevent some rather edged sniping at each other over the barriers. I believe that in Book Seven, Aberforth mentions raising goats while living in Godric's Hollow, probably for milk.

Many thanks to all those who took the time to review the last chapter.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR: THE TROUBLE WITH HARRY

_In which Petunia discovers that telling Harry the truth is fraught with unforeseen difficulties. Unforeseen by Petunia, that is.  
_

Petunia sat down with a thump. "Algy!" she cried.

He gave her an annoyed look: "What?"

"Are you telling those other dragons about things that go on in this household ?" Petunia asked.

"Of course not!" Algy exclaimed. "I just check in with them, and see if _they _know anything."

"How many of them are there?" Petunia said weakly.

"Quite a few, still, I was surprised," Algy said. "The most useful are Aneurin, because his witch is a member of an influential Death Eater family, and Rhosyn, because her witch is Cornelius Fudge's wife, and you just wouldn't believe the things she hears!"

Petunia felt faint. Nesta, observing this, said to Algy with satisfaction: "Now you've done it!"

"Done what?" Algy was bewildered. "I thought Petunia would be pleased, she's always saying knowledge is power."

"Do you, indeed, Mrs. Dursley?" Dumbledore said, looking amused. "And quite right, too." _I hate it when he's condescending. Knowledge isn't power in the wizarding world. Power is power._

Algy continued: "Some of the dragons are out of the country, of course, but even there, I hear some really interesting information. Hr. Abelard, for instance, doesn't know _half _the things Sirius Black gets up to in Paris."

"Not another word, Algy!" Petunia said. "I'm not interested in gossip!" _Oh, hell, yes I am. I'm very, very interested. And if Dumbledore and Moody weren't here, I'd want to hear every last detail_.

"Aren't you?" Algy said. "That's too bad. Aneurin knows lots of it, too. He lives with the Malfoys, you see."

The two wizards, who had been listening to Algy's discourse with expressions of tolerant amusement, suddenly sat up straighter at this.

"The Malfoys purchased a dragon from the Mayhews?" Petunia asked him.

"No – Aneurin used to belong to Lucius Malfoy's mother – originally, that is. When she died, he attached himself to Narcissa Malfoy, partly because he wanted a witch, and partly because he couldn't stand Lucius. 'A large pustule' is what he calls him. Aneurin is really worried about his future, though; he says their son is a small pustule, and there are no daughters."

"What does he say about the Malfoys and Voldemort?" Moody asked the little dragon.

"Well – Aneurin says they are intent on infiltrating the Ministry, and in fact, they already have done so, to some extent – or so they boast, but he tells me that they're mostly hot air, especially Lucius Malfoy. Narcissa isn't too bad, he says."

"Can you get some names for me?" Moody said, looking exceedingly grim.

"I'll try," Algy said doubtfully. "It depends on what Aneurin's willing to tell me. He does like to gossip, but only because he's a bit lonely in Wiltshire, I think."

"And you're a bit lonely here?" Petunia said, giving him a searching look.

"I am not gossiping about you!" Algy exclaimed.

"No, actually, he's not - he's doing the rounds looking for a suitable wizard to marry you," said Nesta, obviously still smarting about Algy's correction of her. _Oh, surprise_! _Just because he stopped talking to me about it didn't mean he stopped matchmaking. He just stopped *telling* me about it._

The look on her face must have been thunderous, because Algy rushed into justification: "You told me you wanted me to be friends with Pompey! Well, he agreed with me on this!"

"Oh, did he?" Petunia said.

"I did," Pompey said from the doorway. He'd obviously been listening. And as usual, he was unapologetic. _He never feels guilty about anything. How I envy him._

"You _knew_ about this?" Petunia said to him reproachfully. "I thought you were more sensible than Algy!" _Oh, you stupid fool, not the right thing to say; from their expressions, I think I've managed to offend both of them. _

Pompey grimaced, and then shrugged. "It's a rather good pretext to make inquiries to the group of them, isn't it? The information he's discovered from his idiotic dragon friends is occasionally interesting, and sometimes it's even relevant. And I believe that there's more to come. We need to know things, and the sooner, the better."

Petunia was silenced by this cold common sense, but Moody was not. "I need names," he said to Algy, "if either of those dragons you mentioned can supply any."

Algy nodded. Petunia then remembered her hostessing duties, and offered a late breakfast to the men, which they accepted. During the meal, they discussed the three missing horcruxes, and what was necessary to do to find them. Petunia wondered whether they should ask Algy's network outright whether they had seen any of the suspected items, but both Dumbledore and Moody decided that it was too risky, and for exactly the same reason they had not opened the Lestrange vault.

Petunia then broached something that had been troubling her for some time: she wanted to tell the boys about the horcruxes. "There is no point in keeping them in the dark, I think," she pointed out. "They need to know what's facing Harry, and certainly neither of them would spread it about." On this point, Moody, much to her surprise, supported her, but Dumbledore did not.

"Why tell Harry that?" he said. "You will just make him miserable, and he's certainly not old enough to cope with the information."

"Don't judge him by yourself," Petunia said, in a sharper manner than was quite polite. Dumbledore's resulting expression was both angry and hurt. _Bulls-eye, then._

"Sorry," Petunia managed, though she really wasn't. "I didn't mean to be rude. But things are going to get worse before they're better obviously, and I think the boys should know what's going on. In my opinion, anyway."

"I think you should let them have their childhood," Dumbledore said. _No, he doesn't. The more people that know, the more potential there is for things to get out of control; or out of his control, anyway. I see his point, and it's a good one, but forewarned is forearmed. The difficulty with Dumbledore is, he doesn't really trust anyone but himself. _

Moody put out the fire by noting drily that Dumbledore was outvoted.

Dumbledore obviously wasn't happy, but he said coolly: "Very well, then, Mrs. Dursley, I agree; you shall have your way." _Translation: if things go awry, I'll get the blame. And I just love the way he says that, as if it's his decision._

Petunia merely nodded. She suspected Dumbledore wanted her to lose her temper in return for her verbal cut about his judgment, and she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

So that Sunday, when they paid their weekly visit to the Manor, she sat down both boys and told them the truth. She was rather disconcerted by their reaction.

"You're _joking_!" said Harry.

"How does that work again?" Dudley the ever-practical asked.

Petunia patiently explained it once more. "Are you seriously telling me that Voldemort killed my parents in order to make one of those thingys?" Harry asked.

"No, he was planning to kill _you_ and make one of those thingys, as you put it," Petunia said. "They merely got in his way, since they had every objection to him killing you."

Harry shook his head and looked at Dudley. "Nobody ever claimed he was sane," was his cousin's comment.

"Nobody could," said Harry. "Isn't it strange that one single person can do so much damage, and hurt so many people?"

_Not only is it strange, Harry, it's tragic._

"You've already discovered and destroyed one of the horcruxes," Petunia told him. "The diary."

Harry looked glum. "That certainly wasn't a happy experience, either," he said. "How many more are there?"

"We think there are five altogether, including the diary. He was aiming at seven."

Harry groaned. "Why seven?" Dudley asked.

"It's the most magical number," Petunia said. "He appears to have asked one of the professors at Hogwarts about it, that's why we know."

"Why me, though?" Harry asked. "I mean, my parents were adult wizards, why me and not them?"

Petunia realized suddenly that she would now have to tell him about the prophecy as well. _Maybe Dumbledore's position on full disclosure wasn't as unreasonable as I thought. This is a lot to tell a fourteen-year-old all at once. But I decided it should be done now, so I'm going to have to follow through with it._

Given Harry's reaction to the news of the horcruxes, she wasn't at all surprised by his open derision when told of the prophecy. After all, her own reaction to this news had been very similar.

"I know Voldemort's mad, but I didn't think he was _that_ mad," Harry said. "How could he possibly take anything that loony old fraud says seriously? I mean, _nobody_ does!"

"Well," said Dudley, in the spirit of accuracy, "some of the girls do – "

Harry shrugged angrily. In fact, anger was his chief reaction. Petunia could scarcely blame him, but it distressed her, especially as she now feared that she may have made a mistake in telling him. Perhaps it _was_ too soon. So she decided to distract the boys by telling them about the Agents of Mayhem.

"Really?" Harry said. "There are Parselmouths in the family?" Petunia hadn't realized how concerned he had been by the appearance of this particular trait. "Why doesn't Dud have it, then?"

"Neither Cressida nor Catullus had it, nor either of their parents," Petunia said. "Your mother didn't, either. It's not predictable, nor very common."

Harry said miserably: "I wish I didn't."

"Don't be so stupid," Dudley said sharply. "It just means you can carry on conversations with reptiles; it doesn't mean you're the second coming of Voldemort, whatever those blithering idiots say."

"Oh, Harry, you don't think that?" Petunia cried.

"No, of course not," Harry said, glaring at Dudley. _And that means, of course, that he does, or perhaps that he did_.

But reading the adventures of the Agents did seem to help. The boys were intrigued and amused by the diary of the Mayhews. "I wonder why they didn't fall for Voldemort, like everyone else did?" Harry said, after reading the available transcripts.

"Maybe they did at first," Dudley said, "but thought better of it."

"It's possible, I suppose," Harry said. "Well, then, Tante, what about the diadem? Are we going after it?"

Petunia was startled. There was something in Harry's face that told her that _he_ was going after the diadem, no matter what she said. So she tried not to panic, and pointed out that the Cup in the Gringotts vault had a warning spell on it. "Do you think Voldemort wouldn't do this for the diadem as well?" she asked. "He would, of course, once he made it into a horcrux. And we definitely don't want him to know that we know about the horcruxes, for obvious reasons – we don't want him to make any more."

"I suppose the real question is, did he ever go that far with it?" Dudley said. "The Mayhews said that he hadn't when they saw it, but he might have done so later."

"How many murders has he committed?" Harry asked. "I'm betting the number's high, and therefore he's had plenty of opportunity to make horcruxes afterwards. And when he's had the opportunity, when hasn't he done it?" _Only once, Harry; and the attack on you was that one time._

"Has Mr. Crouch completed any more of the translation?" Dudley asked.

Petunia hadn't seen Mr. Crouch in the last two days, and supposed that he was working at it, but she didn't know for sure. The boys pointed out that she could invite him to tea, and do something obvious, like ask him. "Very well," Petunia sighed, hoping that she had not just made a huge, horrifying mistake in telling them anything in the first place.

The invitation was tendered via 'the evil Miss Wink' (as the boys persisted in calling her), and was promptly accepted, somewhat to Petunia's surprise. Mr. Crouch had been very reclusive at first, and had often turned down any invitations to meals with the rest of the household or guests, to the point that Petunia had simply stopped making them. Perhaps, she thought, she should have not stopped so soon.

The boys passed the time until tea by discussing her visit to Gringotts with Algy and Nesta. They were highly surprised by the news that dragons guarded some of the vaults. "I didn't see any when I went there first year," Harry said.

"It depends on the vault, I think," Petunia said. "And perhaps what's in it. It seems to me that when I visited Gringotts with Marcella Whiteoak, we were told that differing degrees of security were available. And I suspect the dragons are what they meant by that. They charge more for them, of course."

"They have Volodya chained!" Nesta cried. "They kidnapped him from the Ukraine!"

"They purchased him from the Ukrainian government, in fact," Petunia said, "but I agree that he was given no vote in the transaction."

"Very bad luck on him," Harry said, shaking his head. "I doubt the goblins make his life easy, either."

"Not only that," Algy said, "he says that there's at least four other dragons in the vaults."

"I wonder if that's legal?" This from Dudley.

"Ask Hermoine," Harry said. "If she doesn't know, she'll find out."

Petunia said: "You do know that you can't tell anybody else what I've told you about the horcruxes and the prophecy, don't you, Harry? And you too, Dudley."

"You can't expect us not to tell Hermoine, Mum!" Dudley said.

"Yes, I can," Petunia said firmly. "I want you to promise me, both of you, now."

"I won't !" said Dudley, before Harry had time to reply.

Petunia was surprised, to say the least. "You don't think you owe Harry silence? Do you know what may happen to him if the word gets out? I told both of you the truth because I got the Headmaster to agree to the notion that you were both old enough to deal with the information responsibly – I'm sorry to hear that I was wrong."

Dudley's face flushed bright red, and he got up and ran out of the room. Harry watched him go, and then blocked Petunia as she rose to follow him. "Just leave it for a minute, would you, Tante?"

"But – I didn't mean what I – "

"He didn't either, just let me deal with it, would you? After all, it's my call, isn't it?"

"Harry, you just can't tell everyone you'd like to – "

"I know that," Harry said, with an unchildlike resignation that caught at Petunia's heart. "But I will tell Hermoine, Tante, or rather Dud and I will. She's not only really smart, she's a very good person, you know? That sounds like an odd thing to say about somebody, but there you are. We've already been through a lot together, the three of us."

"And Dudley has a crush on her," Petunia said_. Oh, what's wrong with me today? Every word that comes out of my mouth is the wrong one, delivered in the wrong way._

Luckily Harry didn't take the comment amiss as she had feared he might. He suddenly gave her his old lop-sided grin. "And poor old Dud's hormones are in full overdrive, true. Can't forget that," he agreed.

"And how does she feel about him?" Petunia couldn't help asking.

"Don't really know, right at the moment," Harry said. "Viktor Krum is still interested, and still hanging about. Hermoine's bored to death by Quidditch, but he's pretty glamourous, or so the girls say, and he seems like a decent enough bloke, too, though Dud wishes he wasn't. And then there's Ron; he's not so glamourous, but he is funny. Makes her laugh. She says he's immature, which is dead accurate, but she likes him well enough otherwise."

Petunia sighed. "I suppose there's absolutely no point in assuring Dudley that he'll get over it, is there?"

"None at all," agreed Harry.

Petunia gave him a sidelong look: "Any progress on the Ravenclaw front then?"

"No," said Harry, shortly.

"So I shouldn't say the same thing to you?"

Harry looked up at her through his fringe. "Best not."

"I won't, then," Petunia assured him. "If I apologized to Dudley, would it just make it worse?"

"Definitely," said Harry. "You'd just make even more of a cock up of it." _Thank you, my dear, for your plain speaking. I'm pretty sure you're accurate, too, if not particularly flattering. _ "I'll tell him you're sorry and we agreed that Hermoine gets told. Better not to mention it again."

At this unfortunate juncture, Mr. Crouch wandered into the room, looking rather unsure of what he was doing there.

"Madame," he said, bowing to her. She nodded back distractedly, and gave Harry a look which said: 'as-far-as-the-Elder-is-concerned-we-were-just-dis cussing-the-weather.' Harry nodded, which meant he caught both the look and its meaning.

"Have you made any further progress, Mr. Crouch?" Petunia asked him, almost at random.

"Well, as I told you, Madame, several pages had been ripped out of the diary," he answered. "So I continued from the next intact page, though I'm afraid you may be upset when you read it."

"Why is that?" Petunia asked. She suddenly felt anxious.

In response, Mr. Crouch silently handed her some sheets of paper: the additional transcriptions.

Petunia sat down at the table, and Harry leaned over her shoulder. The first entry was difficult to read. Cato was evidently the writer, though the script looked odd. Instead of his usual upright, spiky handwriting, the longhand sprawled messily across the page. Petunia gasped.

It read: "Today was Cicero's funeral."


	45. Chapter 45: WHEN WE REMEMBERED ZION

That was a charming review, tedyvirysa, and I hope you won't stone me if I tell you that I had to look Diedara up on the internet to determine who he was; but I finally understood the reference once I did. Thank you very much for the compliment.

Yet again, and for the very last time on the subject of the Severitus: the challenge says it begins on Harry's 16th birthday – and so far in this story, he is 14. If you require a traditional-style Severitus, folks, by which I mean a story which focuses on the Severitus and nothing else, there are numerous examples to be sampled on this site. This is not one of them. The summary stays as it is.

Malotogurl: I'm pretty sure Petunia under-estimated the reaction of the boys to the news. That said, they reacted just about like typical adolescents (ie selfishly). After a few days of reflection, as you will see from this chapter, their reactions are rather different.

RRW: I could see that, too. :)

Many thanks to those who reviewed.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE: WHEN WE REMEMBERED ZION

_In which the truth is not making Harry free, just confused. Dudley is scarcely better, and Petunia is wondering if Dumbledore was right._

"****!" Harry said loudly.

"Harry!" Petunia said automatically.

Harry swore again, justly as loudly, and brought his hand down hard on the table. It must have hurt, Petunia noted numbly.

She looked at Mr. Crouch, who appeared stricken. She'd become rather fond of the Mayhew twins, Slytherins or no, and perhaps he had, too, to judge by his expression.

"You're sure of the translation?" she asked him.

He nodded. "If you keep reading," he said, "you will see that it is accurate."

She read further:

_I didn't want to go. I said so, but they would not let me stay behind by myself. I heard Father say to Mother that I shouldn't be left alone. She looked as though she didn't care if I was left alone forever, and wouldn't care ever again. I think I know how she feels._

_It was even worse that I feared it would be. Mother started crying, and then she graduated to hysterics, with Cressy and Tully joining in, more because they could see that she was upset than that they understood what was happening. They made a lot of noise. I could see that the people attending pretended to be shocked, but they were actually meanly delighted – by the drama, I suppose. They'd go home and gossip about what happened, and click their tongues over it and be glad it wasn't them. Poor Octavia, they'll say – one son dead, another son a Squib. I wish it was them instead – all of them. I just wish it wasn't us._

_I wanted to go home. Well, maybe not home, but somewhere I didn't have to deal with my family. Alive or dead. _

_I despise funerals. I despise the people who attend them. I despise people who enjoy the drama. I hope they all die and have big ugly fake funerals themselves. They deserve it, all of it._

_A lot of people were there who hardly knew Cicero. They pretended to be sad that he was dead, when actually they were trying to remember which one of us he was. And often failing; several people even called *me* Cicero. I think that they just wanted to gape at us and enjoy the sideshow. I wanted to AK the lot of them, the miserable, hypocritical, wanking arseholes._

_I hate them._

_I hate that smug, smarmy, evil snake-kissing bastard._

The rest of the page was filled with just four words: _I WILL KILL HIM._

"That last sentence is repeated for ten straight pages," said Mr. Crouch. "One sentence per page, the letters elongated so that they filled the entire sheet." He showed her the pages. The letters looked like they had been carved on the paper with a knife.

Petunia bit her lip. "What happened?" she asked. "Does he say?"

"I think the details must be in the part of the diary that was torn out," Mr. Crouch said. "I looked for the missing pages in the library, but it appears that he may have burned them."

"What's going on?" Dudley said from the doorway. He appeared to have recovered his complexion, and obviously he had been attracted by noise Harry was making.

"Voldemort got one of the twins!" Harry said angrily.

Dudley was calmer: "Which one?" he asked.

"Cicero," Petunia said. "We don't know how it happened, because Cato seems to have torn out the relevant sections out of the diary and destroyed them."

Dudley came over, retrieved the pages, and sat down to read them.

"Voldemort wasn't as harmless as they thought," Dudley said after he had finished. "They didn't take him seriously enough."

He looked meaningfully at Harry, who glared back at him. "I take him seriously," he said. "How can I not? He killed both of my parents."

"We skive off the self-defense Mum asked us to do, don't we?" Dudley asked him. "And I'm not just blaming you, Harry; I'm as guilty of it as you are. Hermoine tries to get both of us to practice our spells more, and work harder, but we don't."

Harry kicked the table leg, and didn't answer. He seemed in danger of exploding, so Petunia was careful not to set him off further. "Let's put this away for now, sit down, and have tea, shall we?" She looked at Mr. Crouch, who got the message, and did just that.

She coolly discussed neutral topics with Mr. Crouch during tea, while the boys sulked at either end of the table. Sulking was something Petunia hated, since Vernon had been much inclined to it when he didn't get his way, and had used it as a manipulation technique against her. In the ordinary course, she would have told the boys to go back to school if they couldn't behave themselves, but today she magisterially ignored it, while wondering what on earth to do about this whole situation.

The boys did go back to the Castle shortly after the end of the meal. Petunia made them travel by floo, and accompanied them on the trip. They didn't complain about this, nor about her inability to realize that they were adults now, and to stop babying them. That was highly unusual, though she didn't ask why. _I know why_.

Nor was she terribly surprised when she received a visit from Harry on his own mid-week, though the actual reason for the call utterly astonished her once she learned from him what it was. After he assured her that he had Minerva McGonagal's permission for his presence, he suddenly seemed to have a difficult time in telling her why he was there. Finally working his way up to it, he asked her if she was secure financially. This subject surprised her so much she was unable to answer immediately.

"What's this all about, Harry?" she finally asked bluntly.

"I was wondering if you had enough money to send Dud to Salem," Harry said, fidgeting exactly the way Algy did when he was anxious about something. "If you don't, I could give you enough money for it. There's lots of it in my vault, or so the goblins tell me."

"Enough money to send Dudley to Salem?" Petunia echoed. "Why on earth would I do that?"

"So he's not in the line of fire!" Harry said.

Petunia stared at him. "I have thought about sending you both to Salem," she admitted. "I still do on occasion, when the wizards in this country irritate me past bearing, which is just about once every half hour or so. Do you want to go, then?"

"Not me, just Dud," said Harry.

"What good would that do?" Petunia asked him. "You'd still be in danger."

"But Dud wouldn't be!" Harry said. "And that's the point of the whole exercise! I was thinking you could go with him and rent a place there, too."

"Leaving you here?" Petunia was astonished. "Alone?"

"Yes!" Harry said. "Otherwise you might get hurt. Or dead."

"Not on your tintype, Harry," Petunia said calmly.

"Why not?" Harry cried.

"Aren't we a family?" Petunia asked. "I know that we exasperate each other pretty consistently, but I thought we were."

Harry sat down. "I thought so, too." He looked thoroughly depressed.

"So what brought this on?" Petunia asked, though she knew.

"The diaries," said Harry. "What if something happened to Dud, like it did to Cicero?"

"What if he goes to Salem and something happens to you?" Petunia asked him. "How do you think he'd feel?"

"Voldemort wouldn't hurt Dud or you if I wasn't around," Harry retorted.

"Don't be so sure of that," Petunia responded. "I'm pretty certain he intended to move on to Neville Longbottom once he had killed you; the other possible infant in the prophecy. But remember this: Dudley was born in late July, too. Yes, he doesn't fufill all the criteria of the prophecy, but Voldemort isn't the type to take chances."

"Cato said his mother hated him," Harry said, head down. _ I see what it is. He fears that I would blame him if something happened to Dudley. Would I be so dreadfully unfair? Can I guarantee that I wouldn't? What did I do to Lily when our parents were killed? I blamed her._

"Harry," Petunia said, with some difficulty, "Cato was writing about a time when his family were shocked and grief-stricken and striking out at each other without thinking. She didn't mean it. I _know_ she didn't."

Harry stared at his feet. Finally he muttered: "I got my parents killed."

"Excuse me?" said Petunia. "You most certainly did not."

"But they didn't need to die, if they had just – " he faltered.

"If they had just stood aside and allowed Voldemort to murder their infant son?" Petunia asked. "Would you do that in their place? I don't think so. They didn't, either."

Harry did not answer.

"Harry, I admit your situation isn't ordinary – to say the least of it – but we've got to make the best of it," Petunia pleaded.

"Sometimes, I wish we were back in Little Whinging," Harry said, surprising Petunia profoundly. She had hated Little Whinging and never imagined that the boys, particularly Harry, might not agree with her on that. "I mean Little Whining after Uncle Vernon was binned. It was peaceful."

_Oh, Harry, you didn't see me struggling with the bills, and wondering how I was going to put food on the table without having to sell the table itself, or the house. Or fearing I'd go mad from the surge, and you and Dudley would end up in an orphanage, or in the care of people who can't reason from A to B, or wipe a nose if it's running – and by that I mean wizards, of course. Though I suppose that I should be glad your memories of that time are so happy. Or maybe it's just the lack of the constant threat of Voldemort that you miss. Probably it is. That I do understand. _

"We can't go back, Harry," Petunia said, as gently as she could. "In the words of Thomas Wolf, 'you can't go home again'. You might think it would be the same if we did, but I assure you, it wouldn't. And even though we could try to avoid the problem by leaving Britain, I think that's a mistake."

"Why?" Harry asked. "Why is it a mistake? We could _all_ go to Massachussets, if you insist. Or further. There's the Pacific Institute of Sorcery and Thaumaturgy in Oregon, for instance; I looked it up. Or the _Darwin __Instituto __de la ciencia __y la magia _in the Galapagos. It's got a very good reputation, I hear. Yes, I know we don't speak Spanish, but we could learn."

"Yes, we could do that, as you say, though I can't say I fancy small islands where we might be cornered by someone unpleasant. Meanwhile, Voldemort would grow stronger," Petunia pointed out. "Stronger and more determined than ever to find you and kill you. Yes, I know his reason why seems stupid to us, but not to him. He's still weak and embryonic at the moment, but that's not going to last forever. Do you want to live like that, Harry, always looking over your shoulder, wondering who's there and whether they're deadly or not? We do have an opportunity here, to find the horcruxes while they're a manageable number and destroy them while he's still too weak to create new ones – and I only speculate when I say that. Then he'd be gone for good."

"I'm only fourteen," said Harry despairingly. "Even if we destroy all of the horcruxes, how am I supposed to kill anyone, let alone the most powerful dark wizard ever?"

"You don't have to kill him, no matter what that rag _The Daily_ _Prophet_ says," Petunia said. "We just have to find and destroy the horcruxes, and then someone else – anyone else – can do the dirty deed. I frankly don't care who it might be; any senior witch or wizard would do. Meanwhile, Harry, you and Dudley do need to be as careful as possible. I've asked Professor Moody to tutor you in magical defense, and he's agreed. He'll be talking to you and Dudley about that soon. I also want you to take the Muggle self-defense techniques I asked you to study seriously. Please. It can't hurt, can it?"

Harry slumped in his chair. "Alright," he said finally. "Sorry."

"Oh, Harry, don't think I haven't considered exactly what you suggested," Petunia said. "More than once. But I've thought about this a great deal, and this is the one time that I've concluded outflanking the wall won't work. We've got to rush the wall on this occasion. Head down and go for broke. Your style exactly. We just have to modify it a little by picking our spots carefully."

Harry half-smiled at this.

Petunia got up to get some floo powder to escort him back to the school. "Don't think I don't worry about both of you," she said, patting his shoulder. "I'm doing everything I can to ensure that we nip Voldemort's comeback in the bud."

"Oh, well, then," said Harry, only half-mockingly, "he hasn't a chance, has he?"

"No, he hasn't," said Petunia. She didn't smile as she said it. _Am I prepared to go as far as my sister did to ensure it? I hope so, but I've never been as strong as she was. Nor as brave._

She escorted Harry back to the Castle, and devoutly hoped that was the end of the problem, at least for awhile. Alas, it wasn't. The next day, Dudley showed up at the Manor, and he, too, assured Petunia that he had Professor Sprout's permission to be there on a weekday night. And he, too, had a question about finances. Was there enough money, he asked, to send Harry, at least, to another school? He supposed that she couldn't use Harry's money because he was underage and perhaps it was in trust, but maybe she could mortgage the Manor until he was older and he then could pay her back? She had always felt that Dudley had inherited her native shrewdness about money, yet here he was proposing a _mortgage_. How very unlike him! Petunia was both saddened and amused.

"And what about you?" she asked gently.

"Oh," said Dudley, "as to that, I'll be fine. But I think Harry would be safer at Salem, say, or maybe the Balangurk Spell-Casting Seminary in Australia. Hermoine says that it's a very good school, and there's an Antipodean Opal-Eye Reservation bordering on it, too. That would be interesting; I bet Harry would like it there. I hear they play Quidditch on surfboards in Australia - you can bet he'd want to try that! And there's the Aotearoa Academy of Magic in New Zealand, if you think that would be better."

"You think so?"

"Yes, why not?"

"Because Harry was here yesterday, offering to lend me money to send _you _to school abroad," Petunia said. "And you only."

Dudley flushed angrily. "Me?" he cried. "Why would he do that? Does he think I'm a fat oaf who can't defend himself?"

Petunia said bluntly: "No, he thinks you might, like Cicero Mayhew, be caught in the crossfire and be killed, thus devastating both him and me."

Dudley looked away. "He's the one in danger," he muttered.

"True, to some extent," said Petunia. "But he's also concerned that if you were killed, I'd blame him."

"That's ridiculous!" Dudley said scornfully.

"I'm touched that you think so, Dudley," Petunia said. "However, I have to point out to you that I hadn't spoken to his mother for several years before she was killed because I blamed her for the death of our parents."

Dudley was taken aback. "Weren't they killed by Death Eaters?" he asked. "That's what you told us, wasn't it?"

"They were, of course," Petunia said. "My point was that they would have never been targeted by Voldemort's flunkies if she hadn't been a witch."

"That wasn't very nice of you, Mum," Dudley said frankly.

"Too right it wasn't," said Petunia. "It was accurate in a sort of way, but mean. But as I pointed out to your cousin, people say things out of grief and stress that they later regret. I know I did."

Dudley looked miserable, and Petunia got up to hug him. "I'll tell you what I told Harry; we have to stick together and find the horcruxes now while Voldemort is still fairly weak. Abdicate responsibility and flee abroad and he'll grow so powerful that we will have no chance at all when he finally comes looking for us, and we have no choice but to turn and fight."

So for the second time in as many days, Petunia escorted a boy back to the Castle by floo. She stopped by Mad-Eye Moody's office on the way back to confirm the defence lessons. He was rather surprised to see her on a weekday, but he agreed to start the tutoring of the boys as soon as possible. Petunia floo'd back to the Manor, feeling acutely tired, and very anxious. There were three more horcruxes to go, and they had to find them before Voldemort became any stronger. _I was sure Dumbledore was wrong about not telling the boys about the horcruxes; but maybe he wasn't. In any case, their anxieties have ramped themselves up. On the other hand, as a result, they might be more careful. It's never straightforward, is it? And I'll answer my own question: no, it never is._

They had a lead on the diadem, but that might change at any time. Petunia had hoped that Mr. Crouch might find some new information about it in the diaries, but the work was slow, and she though she had no doubt that he was a skilled wizard, she was not sure how accurate the translations were. _For once in your life, you will have to rush the wall. That's what you told Harry, wasn't it, now follow it through. You're going to have to gamble, this time on the expertise of an elderly wizard who's otherwise frankly rather dotty._

So once she returned to the Manor, she sought out Mr. Crouch to gauge his progress. He looked tired and frustrated; in the wake of Cicero's death, he said, Cato had become far more careful about what he said in the diaries, and how he said it – at least information regarding Voldemort. His parents had also cracked down; they watched him carefully, he said.

Mr. Crouch handed her his latest translations.

_Father broke the news to me today that I won't be going back to Hogwarts. They want to home-school me, he says. They think I would be better away from the 'bad influences' (their description) in Slytherin. They don't know the half of it. How home-schooling is going to work when Mother can scarcely look me in the eye let alone talk to me, I don't know. I don't want to stay here. Cressy whines constantly and Tully is boring and noisy. Father tries hard to be understanding. He tries so hard that I think I prefer Mother's attitude, which is that I am the spawn of Hell._

_I have to get back to Hogswarts. I can't keep tabs on him from here._

_I decided that the easiest way to do this was to convince Mother that I was planning to murder Tully._


	46. Chapter 46: BUT I CAN'T DO IT ALONE

LoireLoa: Hold that thought...!

Pessimistic: I wonder what happened, too. Not sure yet.

I enjoyed your detailed reviews, Vidicon and Princess Betty (and no, this is not slash).

Many thanks to all those who reviewed the last chapter.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX: BUT I CAN'T DO IT ALONE

_In which Cato Mayhew is thoroughly surprised by someone he thought that he knew (but didn't really.)_

Petunia closed her eyes, and then opened them again. She looked at Mr. Crouch, who said: "He seems to have found a new secrecy spell, and from that point on he's quite straightforward in the diary - about his plans, in any case." Petunia sighed, and read on:

_I suddenly developed a predeliction for Tully's company, and kept offering to take him for walks in the Forbidden Forest. Mother was frightened by this, I could see. Father, whose incomprehension seems to be total, would not let her interfere, however. I heard him tell her that he thought that I was seeking a replacement for Cicero in Tully. God help us all if he actually thinks something so very stupid. _

_Poor little Tully could never replace Cicero. He's perhaps the dullest child ever, though I have to admit that Cressy gives him plenty of competition. At least she is a witch. Oddly, though, I rather agree with Father about Tully's magic. I know everyone else thinks he is a Squib, but his magic is there – I can sense it – but it seems oddly...submerged is the only word I can think of that adequately describes it. That must be what Father also senses, and what frustrates him so much. It's hard to say if it frustrates Tully, or if he can access it at all. I don't think so. It's just sitting there, unused and unusable. _

_After Cicero and I were born, my parents had two still-born daughters. So when Cressy finally arrived and was healthy, Mother spent a lot of time with her. Too much, perhaps. Cressy hasn't a thought in her head beyond what she wears –- she favours pink tutus, crinoline petticoats, and rhinestone tiaras, among other such abominations - and an ever increasing collection of pets of various stripes. In a weak moment, Father told her that he would breed a sport dragon for her, one that talks, though I have no idea why he would make such a promise. Perhaps he was joking; but alas for him, Cressy does not possess a sense of humour. As far as she is concerned, a promise is a promise, and she keeps demanding the dragon. Poor Father. He will have to deliver on the promise, or go mad from Cressy's nagging. I actually think he could do it, but Mother has veto'd it so far. I wouldn't bet against Cressy getting her way in the long run, however. She has the hide of a rhinocerous and an absolute determination to have what she wants, when and where she wants it. To her, delayed gratification is an unknown concept. It isn't to me, however. I am quite prepared to wait._

_The advent of Tully three years after Cressy's birth seems to have surprised Mother, and at first, she wasn't particularly interested in a third son. Then it became evident something was wrong with his magic. Mother became hugely overprotective of him, and just like Cressy, it hasn't done him any good. He's very shy, and seems rather dim, though it's hard to tell, really; he might be just rather underexposed to other people. I think Mother has warned him against me, because he hardly says a word when I'm in the room. Otherwise, he's quite chatty, or so Ean tells me.  
_

_He's afraid of Father, too, but that's because of the experiments. Father is certain he can unlock Tully's magic, and will try anything to do so – at least once. I'm not saying he can't do it, but he may just kill Tully in the process, which rather defeats the purpose, I would think. Mother tries to persuade Father to let it alone, which is like trying to restrain the tide. He's a problem-solver by nature. Some problems can't be solved, of course, but he simply won't accept that. I suppose that accounts for the deer-in-the-headlights expression that the unfortunate Tully sometimes exhibits. _

_Cicero and I thought that if Tully was a Squib, they ought to send him to Muggle schools. Suggestions like that were received coolly by the parents of the Squib in question, to say the least of it. Father because he resented the insinuation that he would not be able to find a way to release Tully's magic; Mother because in her opinion Muggles and their schools are déclassé, or in any case more so than Squibs._

_So Tully is growing up ill-equipped to live in either world, wizarding or Muggle. It's certainly hard lines on him, poor little bloke. I frankly think that they have done the same thing to Cressy, witch or no. We'll see, of course. Next year she will be eleven. Mother is already agitating to continue to school her at home, rather than send her to Hogwarts. Father, to his credit, or perhaps because he wants a little peace and quiet, thinks she should go to school. He is prepared to compromise on Beauxbatons, he says, if Mother won't agree to Hogwarts. From the glint in Mother's eye, I can tell that she is prepared to fight dirty. That means Cressy isn't going anywhere._

_She won in my case, too, at least for awhile. I don't know why she insisted (because I have it from Ean that it was her), for if she hadn't, I would have returned to Hogwarts. She still can barely look at me. There are some things that I just don't understand, and I suppose she heads the list._

_I've reflected carefully on my situation, and come to the conclusion that I won't be able to return to Hogwarts until fall. That's because I must master Occlumency before I go back. I'm not going to make myself a sitting duck for his Lordship – on the contrary, he's in for a big surprise, and I intend to deliver it, front and centre. It helps me if I can concentrate on revenge; I think about that and not about Cicero. I'm even sleeping at night now, for as much as three hours at a time._

_Father had been teaching Cicero and myself Legilimency for the last two years. Supposedly it's illegal, and it's certainly not taught at Hogwarts, but when has that stopped Father before? In fact, it never has. Cicero was somewhat better at it than I was, but from now on, I intend to be the most skilled Legilimens ever. We used to divide skills between the two of us. Less work. Now I must do it all, but I won't be discouraged by that. Not at all. I have the time. It stretches on forever.  
_

_Occulmency is even rarer. It did not take much effort to persuade Father to start teaching me it, but it is terrifically difficult, and takes tremendous control. And if I slip up, I relive Cicero's death and funeral in close up. (And once it starts, it refuses to stop. I know what's coming.) The first time this happened, I had a full-blown anxiety attack, and ended up in St. Mungo's. Mother tried to persuade Father to leave me there. That battle she didn't win. Father thinks I am improving – look at the interest I'm taking in my studies, he says – and getting over my grief for Cicero. Father is a very brilliant man in some ways, but he is completely clueless in others. Mother is not brilliant, but she is not clueless, either. She just looks at me and she knows by instinct that I am plotting something. I'm a Slytherin, after all. Since the day she discovered that Cicero and I could talk to snakes, she has never felt anything approaching affection for us. Just fear._

_We were then seven years old. There is no history of Parselmouths in the Mayhews, so the inference is that the skill (or perhaps curse is a better word) came from her family. There's a rumour that the Potters descend from the Peverells, which might account for it. Curiously, though, the Potters have traditionally been sorted into Gryffindor. Cicero used to laugh and call it 'spontaneous combustion' – no, I don't want to think about Cicero, back to Occulmency, show some discipline, damn you to Hell and back, you stupid idiot - I therefore have plenty of reasons to exercise control, so I have made considerable progress at it. Father is delighted. He thinks 'a new interest is healthy' as he puts it to Mother. (I eavesdrop on them constantly. Ean is a big help there.) I couldn't see Mother's face when he said this, but I can imagine it. She probably just can't believe his gormlessness at times._

_So the Manor has become an information exchange, albeit an involuntary one. If I eavesdrop on my parents, and I do, Mother has taken to following me about. She searches our room – my room - looking for this diary, no doubt. She won't find it. I've become very skilled at hiding it. I find plain sight works the best, along with some 'notice-me-not' spells that I have adapted for use on objects. I won't let her to interfere with my plans._

_I wish I didn't miss Cicero so much. He made family life tolerable, and without him, it's just like slow torture. The annoying things about my parents and my younger brother and sister seem tremendously magnified by his absence. We used to laugh about these things - why I am going on about it, that doesn't make it better - I need to stop thinking about Cicero, how many times do I have to repeat that to you, you stupid, stupid, STUPID arsehole. I need to concentrate on my target._

_First I have to discover if my suspicion is correct. That's the important thing._

_Because I'm going to make sure that Cicerio gets a proper, decent Viking funeral eventually, so that stupid solemn farce that my parents put on for him is wiped from my memory. And the first course at that Viking funeral, flambe_ _to suit the occasion, will be Tom Marvolo Riddle. He doesn't know it, yet. It will be my great pleasure to tell him, and watch his face, that miserable, rotten, wanking coward. My very, very late, and my very, very great pleasure. 'Revenge is a dish best served cold' as the old Pashtun proverb goes. My revenge will be like ice._

_I WILL KILL HIM._

_I keep repeating that, don't I? I suppose it's because repetition has a power of its own, or at least I hope it does._

"What does he mean, what suspicion is correct?" Petunia asked Mr. Crouch. She found reading the diary increasingly disturbing.

"Read on," Mr. Crouch said. "He gets there."

_Mother is also using the house elves in her surveillance activities, which makes things more difficult. It means that if I go to the Crossroads it must be at night. I could try to elude them during the day, but then they would instantly report to her if they lost track of me. No good. I don't want to end up in St. Mungo's under a permanent restraining spell._

_I don't much like the idea of a visit at night, though. There are all kinds of things to be avoided there, and at night they are much more dangerous. It might also be hard to find the X which marks the spot, so to speak. I'll take Ean with me._

The entry ended there, and without a word, Mr. Crouch handed her the next installment. Petunia let out her breath in relief. At least there _was_ a next installment.

_I had to wait for a few days until the night was moonless, and then wait some more until after midnight. My favorite time, usually. Ean and I left through the hall window. I didn't choose my bedroom window for the simple reason that Mother has a warning spell on it. She has learnt by experience, I suppose. I could remove the spell, but that might warn her, too; particularly that my magic is now more advanced than she thought._

_So the hall window it was. We flew over the Forbidden Forest, to the spot that I had calculated carefully beforehand to be the Crossroads. What I did not expect was how very dark it was. I had chosen a moonless night so no one would see me leave the Manor; but once over the Forest, I saw that doing so was a mistake. I could see nothing._

_I flew in circles for more than an hour, trying to find the Crossroads; but beneath me was a vast sea of blackness and nothing else. The trees seemed to blot everything else out. I could use my wand, of course; but that would alert every predator in the Forest to my presence. I began to fly lower, so that my feet started to skim the tree canopy. Then lower yet again, among the higher parts of the trees, in an attempt to see the ground. _

_I hit something – it felt like a blanket slung between two trees. But it did not have as much give as I anticipated; I tumbled from my broom, and struck it upside down as I fell. I grabbed at it. My broom and my wand did fall, clattering to earth in the collision. Forgetting caution, I screamed: "Ean!"_

_He flew after me, and right into the blanket, just as I had done. I tried to move my arms, to raise myself up, but I was stuck fast. Then I realized that it was not a blanket; it was a web. Whatever had made it was nocturnal and currently out hunting. When it returned, at first light, breakfast would be served – and it would be me._

_The web was slung high to catch birds, I guessed. Who owned it? I remembered the rumours of a new acromantula colony in the Forest, and broke into a sudden sweat. Think, or your time is limited. Think. You're a Slytherin. Prove it._

"_Ean!" I cried again, though not as loudly. There was a flutter of wings; I looked down and saw that Ean was stuck to web along with me. A familiar, indeed._

_Wandless magic was not among my conspicuous skills, at least so far. Cicero had been somewhat better than I at it, so I had concentrated on other things. Except now I was alone. There was no Cicero to help me._

_For a minute I sagged against the web and wondered why I even cared enough to struggle. I told myself that I cared because I want to avenge my brother. I had work to do. And to do it, I had to try to escape. Yet every time I struggled, I seemed to become even more thoroughly enmeshed in the web, and more enervated._

"_What an idiot," a voice said. At first I thought that I had said it aloud, but I then realized that I wasn't alone. I don't mean Ean. My sister Cressida sat a few yards away from me on a nightmarish-looking giant bat. I thought that I must be hallucinating, definitely. The bat moved, and then I realized it was actually a skeletal horse, with huge bat-like wings. "That's not a horse, what is it?" I said hoarsely._

"_This is Ebenezer," said Cressy, patting the glossy hide fondly. "He's a thestral." Ebenezer stared at me with bright, intelligent eyes while he hovered beside me._

_I knew about thestrals. They are invisible to all except those witches and wizards who have seen someone else die. I had never seen one before._

"_Who have you seen die?" I asked. Stupid bloody question from someone who is stuck upside down in a giant acromantula web, but I wasn't thinking too clearly just then._

"_Grandmother," said Cressy. "You were away at school."_

"_Cressy," I said, with some difficulty. "Can you find my wand? I dropped it."_

"_Stupid you," said Cressy unanswerably._

_I bit my tongue. I was not exactly in a position to be rude. "Please," I said._

"_I might," Cressy said. "on one condition."_

"_Which is?" I said, forbidding myself to show any impatience. _

"_I want you to persuade Father to breed a sport dragon for me," Cressy said._

_The sheer absurdity of my situation made me want to laugh. I can't remember the last time that had happened. _

"_Would you just sit there and watch the acromantula eat me?" I asked her._

_Cressy shrugged. "That's up to you," she said. At one time, my mother fondly thought Cressy might be her first child to be a Gryffindor. Wrong again. A third Slytherin, or I miss my guess._

"_Why do you want a sport dragon, anyway?" I asked her. "Isn't Ebenezer enough for you?"_

"_Ebenezer is smart, true, but he can't talk," said Cressy, petting his neck. "I want a talking dragon. Father promised me one, but now he says he is too busy. But if you helped him, I think he could manage it. And besides, if you ask him, he'd do it. They want to cheer you up." If I had thought Cressy was too young to catch the nuances in the household, I had been wrong._

"_Why is a talking dragon so important to you?" was my next (stupid) question.  
_

"_Because I want someone to talk to," Cressy said, matter-of-factly. "Tully's too young; you and Cicero never talked to me at all, just each other." I caught a whiff of resentment, and I could see that I needed to be careful._

"_You're more than five years younger than I am, Cressy."_

"_Why should that matter?" Cressy said. _

"_You don't want to talk to Tully," I pointed out. "And he's only three years younger than you."_

"_Tully's a baby," Cressy said. "If you help me with the dragon, I'll help you."_

"_You'll get my wand for me?" I felt a surge of hope.  
_

"_Yes," she said. "And I'll help you with that murder you're planning, if you like."_

_So much for my conviction that no one about knew my plans. I said mildly, "I'm not planning a murder."_

"_Yes, you are," said Cressy, without much interest. "You're going to kill the boy who killed Cicero."_

"_What makes you say that?" I asked. And the answer was: she had been reading my diary, and all the spells that I had so prided myself upon had been no protection at all against this exceedingly determined and precocious ten-year-old Slytherin witch. "No sense of humour, eh?" she said, giving me a narrow look, while she popped a sweet into Ebenezer's mouth._

"_I was delirious when I wrote that," I said, at random. I started sweating again._

"_You meant it," Cressy said, "I read it all."_

"_I didn't know you then, Cressy."_

"_You never wanted to," Cressy said. I could not tell if she was angry or merely dispassionate. With her it was hard to tell._

"_I had a twin then," I pointed out._

_Cressy nodded, as if she was considering this._

"_I showed Mother where the diary was," Cressy told me, "but she couldn't read it." My faith in my spells somewhat restored, I asked: "Did you translate it for her?"_

_I received a disgusted look. "Of course not," Cressy said. "If you go to St. Mungo's, I'll never get my dragon."_

"_There is that," I said, beginning to feel reluctantly fascinated by her. All this bloody talent, and neither Cicero nor I had even so much as spotted it, buried as it was under pink tutus and crinolines._

"_I can help a lot, if I want to," Cressy said._

"_I believe you," I said. And I did._

"_So," said Cressy, "are we allies?"_

"_I rather think we are," I said. I could scarcely refuse, and in any case, I was beginning to think she might be an ally worth having. "Get me my wand and help me get free. Then you can come with me to check on something. And when we get home, I'll talk to Father about the sport dragon, and offer to help him with it."_

"_You promise?"_

"_Not only do I promise, I'll go all the way to Romania myself to get the egg for you, if necessary."_

_Her face lit up and we shook on it. Cressy's hand was rather sticky, though not from the web. She had been eating toffees. I was still upside down in the acromantula web, and thus scarcely in a position to complain._

_She and Ebenezer fetched my wand for me, and thus armed, I made short work of the web and freed both myself and Ean. I also retrieved my broom. "Thestrals are more reliable," Cressy said, and gave a low-pitched whistle. Another thestral glided from the gloom, and tying my broom to my back, I climbed aboard him._

"_Were you going to the Crossroads?" Cressy asked me. She knew about that, too, having followed Cicero and I on our last visit there, she said. Neither of us had even noticed this. She was that good. I was speechless._

"_I can't find it," I muttered. "It's too dark."_

"_Find the Crossroads, Ebenezer," she said to her equine minion, and off he flew into the night, my thestral right behind him. It was a good ten minutes of flight away, so much for the accuracy of my calculations. We landed in the clearing. _

_The stone hut looked tumbledown and untouched, but I knew better. When Cicero and I had first visited here, there was no warning spell on it. Now I quickly determined that there was one; it was as I had suspected. The diadem was still hidden here, but now it was a horcrux. His Lordship had used Cicero's death to create it. I had feared this, but confirmation still made me swear angrily. Cressy, rather bored, asked me why I was upset._

_I told her everything. Perhaps I needed someone to talk to as much as she did. I can't imagine confiding in a ten-year-old girl otherwise. But as I had discovered, appearances were sometimes deceptive. After I had finished, there was silence for some time, and then she said, "Well, I agree with you; he can't be allowed to do that to a Mayhew and expect to get away with it."_

"_I'm so glad you agree," I said drily, but my heart felt lighter._

_When we returned to the Manor, I kept my side of the bargain. Father was surprised by my sudden interest in sport dragons, but seemed pleased by it. (I suppose he could see the future sign on the Manor gatepost: 'Mad Wizard and Son'). And Mother withdrew her veto of the notion in the face of my interest, as Cressy had correctly predicted._

_So Father obtained a Welsh Green dragon's egg from who-knows-what source in Romania, and I obtained an ally, albeit one who sucked toffees and wore crinolines. _


	47. Chapter 47: ISN'T IT ROMANTIC?

My thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter. Yes, the plot needs to move forward, and I am trying hard on that front. The problem is that still I don't know where the plot is going to go. Writing this last few chapters has been like pounding sand, and I very nearly didn't post Chapter 47 at all, because I'm just not sure about it. But I'm afraid to stop posting in case I stall.

Cherry: what an absolute treat to read all those reviews! Thank you! Yes, you're right about the elevator. Muggle! And I did it again in the last chapter, which Tell-Me-Tales pointed out, with 'deer in the headlights.'

Parts of this chapter were written for those who complained about the lack of romance. It may not be the type of romance you envisioned, however. J

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN: ISN'T IT ROMANTIC?

_In which the Horcrux Hunters go horcrux hunting; and the goblins grow impatient with Petunia, and decide to play dirty. They are in for a dragon-sized surprise._

The third task was looming up in the fairly immediate future, and Petunia again began to have trouble sleeping at night. She had hoped that Voldemort might contact Moody with some useful information, but that hadn't happened. They were concerned that this meant he had discovered the substitution of the real Moody for the faux one, but so far it was impossible to tell.

Petunia decided that she would have to risk looking stupid and tell Dumbledore about the Ravenclaw diadem that she believed to be buried at the Crossroads. The possibility of locating a third horcrux was much more important than her fear of enduring his condescension.

Which she did; when she brought up the subject to him and Mad-Eye Moody at the next meeting of the Horcrux Hunters, a very kindly look came into Dumbledore's eyes. _The Squib sister imagines that she's actually going to contribute! - says that look. He thinks it's pathetic, but rather touching._

"Well, of course, we'll go and look for it, Mrs. Dursley," he said genially. _He's humouring me. I don't care, I don't, as long as we find the diadem._

Petunia insisted that the boys be included in the expedition, a request that she could see Dumbledore did not want to grant. He did anyway. He also opposed Algy and Nesta coming along, but Petunia pointed out that fire would repell acromantulas, if necessary. Dumbledore had a hard, practical streak, which cut through his general eccentricity, and again he agreed. But he absolutely refused her request that Aberforth accompany them. As she had been successful in most of her demands, Petunia decided to leave it there, and did not press the issue further. Mad-Eye Moody did accompany them, something they both agreed upon.

Even in the daytime, the Forbidden Forest was dark and...forbidding. Petunia simply could not imagine attempting to find the Crossroads at night. Luckily Algy seemed to know where it was; Petunia noted this carefully for future reference. Mindful of Cato's experience, she warned the entire party not to slip below the level of the tree canopy.

It was mid-morning, but the clearing was still quite dark, with only a few shafts of sunlight penetrating the gloom of the trees. Dumbledore, looking around, muttered a _lumos _spell, and his wand illuminated the immediate area. From the description of it in the diary, Petunia could tell that the Forest had encroached upon it in subsequent years, and it was probably now much smaller than it had been then. She imagined that she could see eyes watching them out of the gloom, some on the ground, some in the trees. _I hope I'm wrong, about the eyes, anyway. I wouldn't want to meet something that large, especially here. _ The paths that had given the clearing its name were overgrown to the point of extinction, just faint lines in the ground.

It was very quiet, too quiet, as if the surrounding forest was holding its breath. _ Just waiting for its chance_. Petunia whispered to Algy and Nesta to keep careful watch, and they nodded, subdued for once.

The hut had been described as tumbledown, but now it had tumbled down in fact. The roof and the door frame were both still standing, but just barely. Moody inspected the interior first, and did a scan for predators and the like. After several minutes, he motioned them inside.

It was empty. There had been some crude furniture at one time, but it had crumbled away to dust. But it had a stone floor, which Petunia noted with interest. Surely pounded dirt would be more likely? She knelt on the floor and started to brush away the debris.

"Let me, Mrs. Dursley," Dumbledore said politely, and with a flick of his wand, he cleared the floor. Petunia remained kneeling. The stone floor had a three-inch border, and in each corner where the borders crossed each other was a small square, marked with a decorative 'x' carved in the stone. Four of them. She looked up at Dumbledore, who employed his wand yet again, and he raised the corner squares with magic.

And there was nothing under them.

Nothing.

In fact, though both Dumbledore and Moody magically searched the hut, there was nothing there. They told her regretfully that so much time had passed that it was simply impossible to tell whether something _had_ been there. _And what they're saying to me is that this is a giant wild goose chase, and I initiated it, and have thoroughly wasted their time._

Petunia had rarely been so humiliated. The boys, perhaps sensing this, tried to comfort her. "I guess Cato moved it, Mum," said Dudley. "Or maybe it was Voldemort, Tante," was Harry's contribution. Moody, who owed her one, said nothing. Dumbledore, who didn't, gently pointed out that relying upon the contents of the diary, and/or Mr. Crouch's translation of same, was probably unwise.

"As you say," Petunia said with an effort. _Cato's not lying; I'm sure he's not. And I believe in Mr. Crouch's expertise, too, despite the fact that he can never remember my name, and only intermittently knows his own. Something happened. I have to find out what it was._

"Shall we go?" Dumbledore said. "I frankly think it's not a good idea to remain here much longer."

"I suppose so," Petunia said, trying hard to retain her composure. _I won't say he's glad that we didn't find the horcrux. But he's not exactly sorry. It takes me down a peg, and he thinks I need it. He may be right, but I won't accept that. Not this time. I'm going to find out what happened, and the only way to do that is forge ahead with the diary._

So once she returned to the Manor and saw the boys safely back to school, Petunia did just that. Luckily, Mr. Crouch had some new pages ready for her to read, and unluckily, they didn't mention the diadem. Cato seemed to be fully engaged in keeping his promise to his sister and had thrown himself into the breeding of her dragon with a will.

Without really looking for it, Petunia had now stumbled upon the dragon breeding information that Charlie Wesley had wanted her to find for him. But after considering the situation, she wasn't at all sure that she would hand it over just yet. _Or perhaps ever_.

Once engaged in it, Cato seemed reluctantly fascinated by the process of breeding sport dragons, and noted down quite a lot of detail about the trial-and-error experiments in the diary. The experiments on the first egg were unsuccessful: the resulting dragon was much too large and could not talk. It was exchanged for another egg, and they tried again. The second dragon was smaller, but still stubbornly non-verbal. Another exchange took place, and they tried a third time. The third dragon was quite a bit smaller and could say a few words. It was then, as Cato noted in his diary, that things got interesting, and they began narrowing the focus of their experiments.

Despite his frequent disclaimers, Petunia could see that Cato seemed to be recovering somewhat from the shock of his brother's death. She was relieved by this, if only for the sake of his mother. _I don't share his view of her, nor her motives. Not at all._

She was also grateful for the information he provided, however, because the goblins had been contacting Petunia regularly, with gradually more aggressive offers for the purchase of Algy and/or Nesta. Petunia had absolutely no trouble in refusing these, but she was careful to do so in a way that left the goblins hope that she would eventually change her mind. They seemed increasingly disappointed by and impatient with her refusals, however, so she hinted that she might be willing to breed a dragon for them. That would hopefully hold them for awhile, and the secrets that Mr. Crouch had found in the diary might convince them that Petunia knew enough to fulfill any contract they might make. It was true, however, that she did not have much experience in dealing with goblins, and it did not occur to her that they might take matters into their own hands.

Then one day Algy came flapping into the Manor in great agitation to report that Nesta had disappeared. They looked for her everywhere: the outbuildings, the farm, the walled gardens, Hogsmeade, Hagrid's hut, and the Castle. She was not in any of them, which left, ominously, the Forbidden Forest. There was something of a trail into the Forest, which could have been made by her, and rather supported that as her location, but Petunia was suspicious; it looked a little unsubtle for the elegant, and tidy, Nesta.

After he had consulted the informal dragon information network, Algy had a different conclusion: "It's the goblins."

He was right, as Nesta related when she returned from the direction of London near dusk on the third day after her disappearance. Petunia, Algy and Hagrid, having thought the very worst, and having met with bland denials from Gringotts, were highly relieved to see her; even Mr. Crouch, her reluctant tutor, seemed pleased by her return.

"There I was," said Nesta to this interested audience that night, after a hearty, much-needed meal, "doing some flying over the farm, just for exercise, you know. I do it every morning, to stretch my wings and keep them strong, and to practice gliding – I haven't quite perfected that yet. I saw something on the ground – it was just lying there, glittering in the sun. It was so pretty that I stopped to take a closer look at it."

Petunia groaned, and even Algy gave Nesta an exasperated look. Petunia knew that dragons traditionally loved treasure, but because Algy had never shown any inclination in this direction, she had not expected Nesta to do so. "I think I forgot to breed that tendency out of her," Algy muttered. "I was in a bit of a hurry."

The boys, who had immediately come home when Nesta went missing to help with the search for her, were highly amused. "You do look smashing, Nesta," Dudley said, while Harry gave her an appreciative thumbs up. She preened delightedly.

Petunia wouldn't have exactly used that adjective, but certainly Nesta sparkled. She had on a large emerald, peridot, and diamond necklace looped around her neck, and a collar of elaborately woven gold hung with briolette-cut yellow topazes. Petunia noticed that the jewellery had been carefully chosen to appeal to (and co-ordinate with) a green dragon with yellow eyes. She would not have expected the goblins to consider such nuances, and her respect for their cunning grew.

"It was just lying there, abandoned," Nesta said, ignoring eye-rolls from her audience, "and I thought, 'what a shame, it's not being worn.'"

"And just by coincidence," said Petunia, unable to restrain her sarcasm, "it happened to be big enough for a dragon your size to wear."

"Yes," said Nesta happily, "wasn't that lucky?"

"I'm not sure luck had anything to do with it," Petunia muttered.

"So I stopped, and landed beside the jewels," Nesta continued, "and I had a good look. The necklaces were really very pretty, and I decided to put them on, because it seemed a shame that no one could see them on the ground."

"_You_ did," Algy said sharply.

"Yes," said Nesta, "but only because I was flying at the time."

"Did it occur to you that they had been put there so you _could _see them?" Petunia asked her.

"Not until later," Nesta said seriously.

Petunia was exasperated, but said nothing. _I keep forgetting how young she is; she's still a hatchling, really, and perhaps we expect too much from her at times._

"After I'd put the necklaces on," Nesta said, "some goblins jumped from the bushes nearby and said that their contract had been accepted. I didn't know what on earth they meant."

"Sneaky!" said Petunia, who did.

Thereafter Nesta was unable to say what exactly had happened to her, because apparently she had been stunned, probably by a wizard, and from behind, so she couldn't use her fire-breathing abilities to defend herself.

"Then I woke up, and I found that I was at Gringotts and that they had chained me!" she cried indignantly. "They had a wizard who put a spell on me so that I couldn't breathe fire! And they took my jewellery away!" The latter seemed to make her angrier than the former.

The goblins had then demanded that Nesta talk to their dragons to discover what exactly they knew about the contents of the vaults they guarded, and the goings and comings of the people who visited them, and what they did in the vaults. It had not occurred to Nesta to refuse - at first. She counted eleven dragons, she said; and she believed that she had talked to all of the ones on the premises. "They were different sizes and different breeds," she said, "and most of them had arrived at Gringotts exactly the way I had. I did learn a lot of interesting things from them. I spoke to Volodya again, too. He's no happier than he was, and in fact, he's less. He wants out of there; so do the other dragons. They weren't aware that there were so many of them at Gringotts. The goblins keep them apart as much as possible."

She was quite astounded by how she was treated by the goblins. "They expected me to eat raw food, and sleep on a cold stone floor! And they beat me! Me!"

"Shocking!" said Petunia, and she wasn't being sarcastic. She was angry instead. When Nesta pointed out the welts on her back, she was even angrier, and asked Hagrid if he had anything to treat them with. He did, some essence of Murtlap, and Nesta was considerably soothed by this. Petunia, however, was not. It infuriated her that the goblins had not only abducted Nesta, but also had the gall to torture her. And in doing so, they had also demonstrated their contempt for Petunia, an insulting slight for which she intended to make them pay. _And it's not because I was humbled in the matter of the diadem. Certainly not._

"They wouldn't let me stay with any of the other dragons," Nesta continued, "just visit." _Afraid of what you might tell them, if you had enough time, I suppose. _ "I didn't mind doing that, but then I wanted to go home, and they said no, I had accepted the jewels, and so I had to work in return for them. I didn't understand how that went: they took them away, didn't they? But they said that a contract is a contract." _And a lure is a trap and a cheat._

"How did you get away, Nesta?" Harry asked her.

"Well, it appeared that they wanted me in particular to talk to their newest dragon – a Peruvian Vipertooth. They had kidnapped him directly from Peru, not from Romania, and were having particular trouble controlling him, they said. They said he was very wild - insufficiently obedient, was the way they put it - and not afraid enough of wizards or goblins. He was supposed to guard a very important, but small vault, quite close to the surface, but he tended to spend his time looking for a way out and burrowing under the vault's contents. I didn't want to help them; they were treating me so badly, and I was so homesick! I refused to do it, and that's when they started beating me, you know. So when I finally talked to the Vipertooth, I told him not to come out but to hide and wait for my signal; and then he was to bite both of the goblins in the vault with us. I promised to distract them so he could do it."

"And how did you do that?" asked Petunia, with some trepidation.

Nesta said: "I told them that one of the dragons I had talked to earlier told me about a lost vault brimming with gold. That got their attention, right enough, and they started questioning me. I started crying and said the shackles were hurting my welts so much that I couldn't remember the location of the vault, I was in such pain. So they unshackled me. They still had the prods they had beaten me with, and I still couldn't breathe fire because of the spell, so I suppose they felt they were safe enough. I'm not very big, you know, and they're stupid enough to think that's important. They were so excited that they rather forgot about the Vipertooth, especially as they couldn't see him. I discovered that Vipertooths can move really fast. This one was like lightning! He had bitten both of them before they even knew what had happened."

"Good for you, Nesta," Algy said fiercely. The boys evidently agreed with this sentiment, for they patted her on the neck, carefully avoiding her welts.

"Did the bites kill them?" Petunia asked, startled.

"I don't know, and I don't care," said Nesta. "I just wanted to leave, so I took their keys and that's what we did."

"We?" Petunia said, dreading what she feared must be coming next.

"Yes, _we_," said Nesta. "Rogelio!"

A copper-coloured head, adorned with short horns, appeared at the French windows of the drawing room. The dragon was the smallest non-sport variety that Petunia had ever seen, which still made him at least fifteen feet long. He gave Petunia what he evidently felt was an ingratiating smile, which unfortunately displayed an array of absolutely wicked-looking teeth, tipped in red.

"Nesta," Petunia cried, "why did you bring him here?"

"Well, I know, but where else could he go?" Nesta said reasonably. "He's much too far from home to fly there, besides which he's not entirely sure of the direction, nor where his dragon pride might be at this moment. He's nearly as young as I am, you know. And if he stays around London, the goblins will recapture him."

"Vipertooths are wizard-eaters!" said Hagrid. "Notorious for it, they are."

"Rogelio would never do anything like that; he's very sweet," said Nesta. "He saved me from those nasty goblins, didn't you, Rogelio?"

Rogelio gave her a look of pure enchantment. _My God in heaven, he's in love._

"Nesta, I can't keep him here, I really can't," Petunia said. "I shouldn't have kept _you_, for that matter." _I did, though, and see what's become of it._

"The other things Vipertooths like to eat are cattle and goats," said Hagrid signifigantly.

"Rogelio is a gentleman," said Nesta. "He won't eat anything, or bite anything, unless I tell him that it's fine for him to do so. Isn't that so, my friend?" she said sweetly to the Peruvian Vipertooth, who gave her another infatuated, fang-filled grin.

"Don't ever say 'Bite me' to him, Nesta," Harry noted in an aside. "That's all I can say."

"Why would I say that?" Nesta said, looking puzzled, the remark sailing right over her head. Algy, though, looked thunderous. _I do believe that we have the beginning of a dragon triangle developing here, which makes things even worse. Luckily Rogelio will be on his way before things decline even further. I hope._

As far as Petunia was concerned Rogelio was headed for Romania as quickly as she could arrange it. In the meantime, his size meant that the carriage house would have to be employed, and she and Hagrid quickly cleaned it out, laid down some fresh straw and blankets, fetched some water and some cooked food for the famished dragon. He tried to eat it politely, given that his lady-love Nesta was included in the audience, but in the end sheer hunger overcame him, and he gobbled it down. Petunia wondered whether the goblins kept their dragons on short commons deliberately, and decided that they probably did, because feeding them properly would reduce their profits. _They may have a point. How on earth am I going to pay for it for very long? He's a growing dragon._

Petunia was curious about another issue: "Nesta? Didn't you say that the goblins had taken the jewels from you? So why are you wearing them right now?"

Nesta looked down at the jewels and tried hard to seem surprised. "Oh, you're right; I _am_ wearing them! You see, Rogelio and I were making our escape, and we just happened to encounter a goblin putting them into a vault."

"And?" said Petunia, not believing a word of it. _I am willing to believe that she searched the place for them_, _at great length and at the possible expense of her freedom, because with certain dragons, bling is king._

Nesta looked mulish. "I took them! I earned them, didn't I?"

"You might say that. Should I ask what happened to the goblin in question?"

"I hit him over the head with the keys," Nesta said. "It saved Rogelio the trouble of biting him." Rogelio heard her mention his name, and smiled at her adoringly, his red-tinged teeth glinting in the lamplight. Petunia sang a chorus of "Isn't It Romantic?" in her head, and in spite of everything, found herself cheering up. She was amused to note that Rogelio had also appropriated a piece of jewellery from Gringotts, a heavy gold chain and pendant, which he wore rakishly around his neck, and of which he was obviously very proud. _If he's around Nesta much longer, he'll develop into as big a thief as she is. Can you call her a thief when she's stealing from thieves? I guess we'll find out soon, because I don't see the goblins leaving it there. Round two is just about to begin. In this corner are two Common Welsh Greens, one Peruvian Vipertooth, one half-giant, and one very, very, VERY angry witch._


	48. Chapter 48: GOBLIN MARKET

Tedyvirysa: No, Algy is not Nesta's father; when he says he bred her, he means that that he used methods to ensure an ordinary dragon's egg produced a much smaller than normal, talking dragon.

Cherry: And not only is elevator Muggle, it should have been lift! Argh!

Vidi: It's tough to remember the proper British terms, let alone the proper non-Muggle ones.

Risi: I liked your comment about Snape considering the dragons as ambulatory potions ingredients. Might use that one...

Clifton: I live in a bilingual country which is why the occasional Franglish.

Oh, Moi, of course you caught the fact that I forgot Petunia hadn't told Dumbledore about Mr. Crouch in the story. She must have done it offscreen! I think! (I hope.)

Thanks for the reviews, some interesting suggestions and comments this week.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT: GOBLIN MARKET

_In which the goblins demonstrate the art of the deal, and Petunia demonstrates that thinking on the fly will get you into a load of trouble._

The next day Petunia was not at all surprised to receive a demand from Gringotts for a meeting with a formal delegation of five goblins. At first, she was inclined to refuse, but Hagrid told her bluntly that she'd be better to see up close what they were plotting. She took his point, and so she agreed to it, preparing carefully for the encounter, first removing both Nesta and Rogelio from the Manor to Hagrid's hut, with Hagrid to supervise them, and to hopefully prevent them from getting into trouble. Well, for an hour at least, which was twice as long as it took them to do so usually. Then she asked both Mad-Eye Moody and Mr. Crouch to sit in; one to supply the law-enforcement point of view, and the other to provide the proper bureaucratic input. The boys insisted upon attending as well, rather to Petunia's surprise; but she cautioned them about interrupting. They assured her that they would be the soul of discretion, which she thought unlikely, but she had been surprised before.

She received the Gringotts delegation in the drawing room of the Manor; it included her old acquaintences, Otrygg and Arngrim, two very tough-looking younger goblins, and a quiet older goblin, who they introduced to her as Bothgar, and who sat in a corner without saying a word, but listening intently. After a very few minutes, Petunia had him pegged as the power wielder of the group, but she wasn't as yet sure of her assessment. It was Otrygg, however, who delivered a stern (and in her opinion, utterly shameless) formal demand for the return of their jewels; their Peruvian Vipertooth dragon; and Nesta.

"Excuse me?" she said. "I seem to recall when I asked you if you had Nesta at Gringotts a few days ago, you denied ever seeing her, which turned out to be an outright lie."

The goblins coolly pointed out that the goblins who had told her that had said nothing but the truth: _they _hadn't seen Nesta. Other goblins might have, of course.

"Oh, of _course_," said Petunia, who had a feeling that her sarcasm was going to get quite a workout in this interview. She noted that Otrygg had a bandaged arm, and Arngrim was limping. It appeared that they had been the goblins bitten by the intrepid Rogelio. Luckily for them, it also appeared that a bite from a juvenile Vipertooth didn't kill you, especially if you happened to be a goblin, it just made you extremely sick for about forty-eight hours. _Not long enough, alas_.

The goblins demanded to see her alone, to which ploy she answered: "I wouldn't press for that if I were you, gentlemen. These wizards aren't here to protect me, they are here to protect _you._"

Bothgar's eyelids flickered, and he gave Otrygg an unobtrusive cut-off gesture_. I see. He *is* running the show._

"Where are the dragons?" Otrygg tried next.

"I don't know. I haven't _seen_ any dragons," said Petunia. Bothgar's face showed no reaction, though Petunia thought she detected a slight twitch.

"They belong to Gringotts, both of them," Arngrim said, "and we will prosecute you, to the utmost limits of the law, for theft, and take everything you own when we win."

But Petunia, thanks to the vicissitudes of her life with Vernon and Marge, was equal to this type of hyperbolic threat, and didn't blink an eye. "Well, perhaps," she said. "But you'd have to in fact win the suit first, which might be easier said than done. I have to point out that some of the evidence might not favour you at all. For example, I requested Auror Moody here to look into the state of your bank's legal dragonholding status in Britain. Fascinating, I must say."

The younger goblins did not get her point, but she saw that the older one most certainly did. _No flies on him._

"In order to keep a dragon in this country," Petunia continued, "I understand that you are required to have a specific licence issued by the Ministry of Magic or be a member of Clan McFusty, which I rather suspect none of you are. You can contradict me on that point, of course, if you like." She paused and gave them a bland look. None of the goblins said anything. "In fact, your only legal dragonholding licence is for your branch in Edinborough, which is a more lenient city than London on this question, and even that seems to have expired in 1987. So, for the record, you are keeping a total of eleven illegal dragons – ten if you don't count the escaped Vipertooth – and in the centre of London, too. You do recall the incident that allegedly led to the Great Fire of London, don't you? I'm almost certain that you do. As a result, no firebreathing dragons are allowed by the Ministry to be kept in the city itself. Tsk, tsk, gentlemen, there's going to be a penalty for _that, _wouldn't you think?"

The goblins were silent. _I suspect they will allow me to go my length before rolling out their heavy guns. I might as well enjoy myself while I can._

"I am reliably informed that wild dragons," Petunia went on, "such as, let us say, Peruvian Vipertooths, require special dragon licences. I understand that in the entire history of the dragon-licencing branch in London, which covers all of England, Scotland, Ulster, and Eire as well as Scandinavia, such a licence appears never to have been granted. I therefore think it pointless to ask you if have one."

"You don't, either," asked Bothgar, with a grimace, speaking for the first time.

"No," said Petunia. "But then I don't have a Peruvian Vipertooth." _Well, not on the premises. Currently. Two can play that game._

"You do have two dragons, though, for which you have no licences," Otrygg pointed out.

"Excuse me?" said Petunia. "I have no dragons at all."

At this inauspicious moment, Algy came flapping through the door, which had been left slightly ajar. He alighted on Petunia's chairback, and looked around the room in some confusion. "What are all these goblins doing here?" he asked Petunia. "Why haven't you driven them away? You said you would."

"They are our guests, Algy," Petunia said, hoping he was not going to be indiscreet. He had improved a great deal on that front, but the presence of the goblins was obviously agitating him.

"But last night," Algy cried, "you said if just one of them dared to darken your damned door, you'd have their guts for garters, and in two shakes of a lamb's tail, you'd be roasting their best bits on a spit over the fire–"

"Algy!" Petunia said hastily. "You needn't repeat _everything_ I say!"

The four younger goblins looked distinctly uneasy, and crossed their legs, almost in unison. Bothgar was made of sterner stuff, and remained expressionless and motionless, legs uncrossed. Mr. Crouch looked vacant, and Moody appeared to be biting his lip very hard indeed to keep from laughing. Petunia understood why: the perfectly synchronized leg-crossing had looked absurdly like a goblin chorus line. She herself had to scratch the palm of her hand with one fingernail - hard - to keep control of herself. The boys, as they had promised, were discreet - both hidden their faces in their hands, their shoulders shaking - but silently.

"Well, now they've darkened your door, haven't they?" said Algy. "What's stopping you?"

"My natural self-control," said Petunia, giving Mad-Eye and her children a baleful look, and shaking a tingling palm. "Of course, even that can be put under considerable strain."

The goblins now pretended that they didn't understand her, though a ghost of a smile played around Bothgar's mouth. Moody and the boys were still struggling hard to keep their countenances, and losing the battle; Mr. Crouch looked completely befuddled, which indeed he was, most of the time. But Petunia knew well that he could click back into hard-nosed competence with a snap of his fingers. Or hers, for that matter.

"This delegation has come from Gringotts to demand Nesta back, and that jewellery they lured her away with as well," she said. She thought it better not to mention Rogelio, for fear that Algy would offer him back to the goblins on a platter. He thoroughly disliked the young Vipertooth.

"Why?" said Algy angrily. "So you lot can beat her some more?"

"That," said Otrygg, pointing to Algy, "is a dragon. In your possession, too."

"Dragons are classified as beasts, and beasts can't talk," Petunia pointed out. "And as you just heard, Algy can talk. Ergo, he is not a dragon."

Otrygg objected: "Centaurs are beasts, and _they_ talk!"

"Only because they chose to be," Petunia said. "You know as well as I do that the Ministry offered to classify them otherwise. The merpeople and the leprechauns made the same choice." Mr. Crouch had advised her on this issue.

"I am so a dragon!" cried Algy.

"You are _not,_" Petunia said.

"What am I, then?" Algy was taken aback.

"You are a Mayhew," Petunia said firmly. "Cassius Mayhew, my great-great grandfather, registered you in his family book – see here –" She pointed out his name, listed right after that of her own ancestor. Algy craned his neck to see the entry and then looked up at her in some wonder.

"And the other one? Is she a Mayhew, too?" asked Otrygg caustically.

"Yes, of course she is," Petunia said. "Here's her entry, right at the end of the list." _Of course, I put it there just before you arrived, but I don't think that I'll mention that right at the moment._

"Isn't breeding dragons illegal in this country?" Bothgar spoke slowly.

"For wizards, yes," Petunia said. "But then Algy bred her, not I, and he is not a wizard."

Bothgar said, "Yes, we know. He is a _Mayhew_." The sarcasm he got into the last word was worthy of Petunia herself. "So perhaps _he_ should be arrested for illegal dragon breeding."

"Only wizards can be persecuted for that offence," Petunia said blandly. "I looked it up."

Bothgar closed his eyes momentarily and shook his head. "You offered to breed us a dragon, as I recall," he pointed out, trying a new tack.

"An offer is just an offer," Petunia said airily. "No such breeding took place."

"The female dragon accepted our contract," Otrygg interjected. "She took the jewels – in fact, she still has them."

"And what were the terms of this contract?" Petunia asked. "Was it immediately obvious to her, and did she have legal advice? And you know the answers to those questions."

"That's not important," Otrygg objected, but Petunia swept on.

"It is important," Petunia said, not giving an inch. "And an even more important question is: can you make such a contract with a juvenile? Nesta is not an adult, and therefore that contract is not binding. And if you chose to attempt to bind a child with such a contract, well, then you deserve to lose your collateral." _I don't think I'm on very strong legal ground here, but the fact is, Nesta isn't going to give the jewellery back. She just isn't. And since they chose to beat her, I'm damned if I'll make her, either. She earned something here, and it wasn't violence._

"That jewellery belongs to Gringotts," Otrygg said.

"Well," said Petunia, "you claim that Nesta accepted the contract; and if she did, then the jewellery belongs to her, as consideration for her acceptance of it. And she did provide you with services, I might note. She spoke to all of the dragons at Gringotts, and obtained information for you from them, which is exactly what you requested of her."

"She didn't do enough to honour the contract! It was supposed to be permanent!" Arngrim chimed in, scowling.

"You're complaining about honour?" Petunia said sharply. "That's rich!" Moody gave her a shake of the head, which she interpreted to mean that she was losing her temper and thus handing the goblins the advantage. _Good point, Mad-Eye. Good point_.

In a milder tone, she said: "I might remind you that you have consistently asked me to sell you both Algy and Nesta." Algy gave her a horrified look. "My response was that they were free agents and not mine to sell. You knew Nesta was a juvenile, because I repeatedly told you that, but you still tried to lure her into basic slavery by way of this so-called magical contract, the terms of which you did not make clear, or even obvious. It was very carefully and very cleverly done, and you had obviously studied her habits and tastes before you tried it."

"We did no such thing," Otrygg said coldly.

"You then assaulted her when she refused to co-operate further," Petunia went on, ignoring him. "You assaulted a child and a Mayhew, which is a criminal offence, for which, on her behalf, I will sue _you_ to the limits of the law, and take everything _you _own. And you own a lot more than I do." She let that comment sink in, and then continued: "I will also expose the plight of the imprisoned dragons in your vaults. And if you think that wouldn't be one hellish great big scandal, all over the front page of the _Prophet_, complete with a list of all the times you've broken the laws in the past, and cries for more Ministry supervision of your bank, you're dreaming."

"You might think that the Ministry will turn a blind eye," said Moody, entering the fray, "but don't bet on it. Yes, I know the Ministry owes the bank money in general, and a number of Ministry officials do, individually. So do a lot of ordinary wizards, and all of the above might seize upon a scandal as a good reason to default on their loans."

Petunia was unaware that goblins could turn pale. Apparently they could. She added, "I happen to know that Cornelius Fudge's wife has a Mayhew-bred dragon as her familiar, so complaints about Algy are not likely to be heard with much sympathy at the Ministry, either."

Algy brightened. "That's right!" he said. "Her name is Rhosyn!"

Otrygg cringed just a bit, but Bothgar did not even bother. "I believe your arguments run as follows, Mrs. Dursley," he said. "Either the contract is inforceable or it isn't; either the female Welsh Green is a dragon or she isn't; either the male Welsh Green is a Mayhew, or a wizard, or dragon, or perhaps all three, or he isn't; either the jewellery belongs to us or it doesn't. If we sue you, you threaten to expose a rule broken by the bank, though you have strewn broken rules behind you like clouds of rubies."

"Indeed," said Petunia, smiling involuntarily. "That's no only accurate, it's almost poetic, though to be frank, you've broken more than one rule, and you have certainly outdone me in that department." _ I suspect that under other circumstances, Bothgar and I would get along very well. We certainly have matching senses of absurdity._

"And what about the Vipertooth?" Bothgar asked. "Are you willing to return him?"

"Rogelio is a dragon, of course, since he can't talk; but he is also a free agent," said Petunia. "I have no control over him."

"You are hiding him, are you not?" Otrygg asked.

"I assure you, he is not in this house," Petunia responded truthfully.

"But you know where he is?" This from Arngrim.

"I couldn't be sure about that," Petunia said. Indeed with either Nesta or Rogelio one never really knew.

"If - hypothetically - we were to concede that we did not own the Welsh Green," said Bothgar slowly, "would you then return the Vipertooth and the jewellery?" His entourage looked astounded by this question.

"I wasn't being coy about having no control over the Vipertooth," said Petunia. "I quite literally don't. And even if I did, I wouldn't trade his freedom for Nesta's."

"Easy to say, under the circumstances, Madame," Bothgar mocked her.

"Very easy," Petunia agreed. "I don't expect you to understand it, because most wizards wouldn't, either." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Mad-Eye Moody looked rather indignant. _Sorry, Alastor_. _It's true, though_.

"And the jewellery?" Bothgar asked.

"You could have it back with my goodwill," Petunia said. "Or let me amend that, my ill will. But it doesn't belong to me, nor do I breathe fire."

"Which means?" Otrygg interrupted. Bothgar gave him an impatient look.

"It means Nesta loves the jewellery, and she is not prepared to give it up."

Otrygg said: "Does that mean she will honour the contract?"

"In short, no; it means she's a baby, and she loves pretty, shiny things, and won't let them go easily. It also means she is quite prepared to burn you to death with dragonfire, if necessary, in order to keep them. Bear that in mind."

"Will you compensate us for it, then? And the Vipertooth?" Otrygg wanted to know, shrugging this comment off.

"You kidnapped the Vipertooth directly from Peru, did you not?" Petunia pointed out. "You don't have a legal leg to stand on there, and you know it. Besides which, I am not responsible for his escape."

"But the Welsh Green, who is a _Mayhew_, is responsible," Bothgar said.

Petunia said: "She is a baby Mayhew, and she is thus responsible for nothing."

"If she had done what she was told, he would not have escaped," Arngrim said coldly. Petunia noted to herself that they were going in circles.

"Perhaps we could make this bargain," said Bothgar, who probably agreed with her about the circular nature of the conversation, "you give us the Welsh Green and the Vipertooth, and we will give _you_ the jewellery."

"I am not interested in the jewellery," Petunia said coldly, her mind racing. Bothgar looked politely incredulous.

"Let me parboil them, Petunia, please," Algy begged her. He blew an ominous smoke ring.

The younger goblins looked rather alarmed at this notion, but Petunia laid a hand on Algy's neck to calm him. "I will do this much," she said. "I will not prevent you from recapturing the Vipertooth if you are able to do so. I won't help you, either. But Nesta stays here, and the jewellery as well, except for the gold chain, which Rogelio stole himself and is wearing. If you recapture him, you recapture it."

The goblins looked blank. "Rogelio is the Vipertooth," she explained patiently.

"Is that all you are willing to offer us?" Bothgar said. "That you won't interfere in our recapture of the Vipertooth?"

"I don't know what else I can offer you -" Petunia said, and then broke off, considering.

"Didn't you tell me that one of the sport dragons was orphaned?" Petunia then asked Algy, who looked startled.

"If you mean Sholto," Algy said, "yes, I did, but -"

"There!" said Petunia, to the goblins. "We could arrange for you to take on a sport dragon of your own. The difficulty with that is, the dragon would require a person to be a familiar to."

The goblins stared at her for a few seconds. Finally Arnrim asked what this entailed.

"It means the dragon would accompany that person everywhere," Petunia said. The goblins, for the very first time, looked daunted. They asked if they could assign this task to one of the wizards in their employ.

"I think Bothgar might be able to cope," Petunia said brightly. "And I also think I will insist upon a goblin, not a wizard. Furthermore, we would require a contract, of course, to cover the treatment of said dragon – good food, a proper bed, decent treatment, no torture whatsoever, and a reporting clause."

"A reporting clause?" Bothgar said, looking stunned.

"To make sure you are complying with the terms of the contract, and respecting the welfare of the dragon," Petunia said. "Given your history in that direction, you will understand my concern, I think."

"Mum!" said Dudley incredulously. "Why would offer them that? They don't deserve anything!"

"Because it never pays to leave angry enemies in your wake," Petunia said to him. "You'll find that they will continue to cause you grief when you least need it. _I know_ _Marge Dursley did for me. _"Do I think they are entirely in the wrong? Yes. Do I want peace with them? Also yes. They can do us a lot of damage, and I would rather avoid that." The younger goblins looked disdainful, Petunia supposed because she was openly making such an admission. Bothgar's countenance, however, revealed nothing. _He's not absolutely persuaded that's my real reason, I think. Right again, Bothgar_.

After a rather lengthy private consultation which appeared to get rather heated, the goblins gave a tentative assent to the deal, Bothgar looking as though he wished that he had veto power. They then took themselves off, politely declining Petunia's offer of refreshments, much to her relief. She wasn't sure if she could keep the peace if they had stayed much longer.

Not one of her supporters appeared to be happy with the compromise. The boys said that, in their view, the goblins ought to be given the rightabout, with a strategically placed boot to help them on their way. Moody thought that the proposed contract would be too difficult to police. Mr. Crouch, too, wondered about proper enforcement.

"I don't expect it to be forever," Petunia said. "I just want it to last long enough for us to discover where the remaining horcruxes are, and I'm betting at least one of them is at Gringotts. We need someone on the inside to look about and to listen. An experienced dragon would be ideal."

"Petunia?" said Algy in a small voice. "If that's your reason, then we may have a problem. Sholto is a bit different."

Sholto, according to Algy, had been a breeding experiment gone wrong. The Mayhews had always used Welsh Greens in their experiments, but had decided to try a Hebridian Black instead. They were a larger, tougher dragon, and quite aggressive. The result of their first (and last) attempt was Sholto. He was, as Algy said Cressida had told him, a handsome-looking dragon, and he proved very intelligent. But the Mayhews had discovered that he was also _thrawn_, a characteristic of the Hebridian Blacks that seemed to grow stronger in inverse to a reduction of their size.

"_Thrawn_?" asked Petunia. "What does that mean?"

Moody looked amused. "It's a Gaelic word. It means impossibly bloody-minded."

There was a silence. "Algy?" Petunia said. "Perhaps I should have asked you this earlier – whose familiar _was_ Sholto?"

Algy looked at her. "I thought I had told you that," he said. "He was Cato Mayhew's familiar."


End file.
